Shadows: Book One of the Eligia Shala
Date: 2011-03-14 10:32:20+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Fantasy; General
Description: Imperial Princess Jenevra Couressime is an unwelcome reminder to her family of an incident they would all rather forgetthe murder of her parents. Often ignored, fourteen-year-old Jenevra is not surprised when she is sent from court to a rigidly disciplined life in exile. Hopeful that she will never have to see any of her family again, Jenevra soon finds a cold satisfaction in the harsh discipline of a Temple Order. Jenevra becomes an assassin of chilling efficiencyperfectly equipped to serve as protector to her cousin, who happens to be the new Emperor. But after her return to court thrusts he
Publisher: iUniverse

SHADOWS

Book One of the Eligia Shala

Gaynor Deal
iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Shadows

Book One of the Eligia Shala

Copyright © 2010 by Gaynor Deal

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-8057-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8058-7 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8059-4 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010918786

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 02/14/2011

FOR KEVIN,

ANDY & ELEANOR

Contents

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

Acknowledgements

Firstly, I need to thank my parents. Their willingness to let me “hibernate” with a good book, and Mum’s fairy tales, helped to develop a love of reading that has only grown stronger with time, and a mind open to the world of imagination.

To the wonderful, talented, Ms. Taryn Nida, a deep debt of gratitude for taking on the cover art project over such a short time frame.

To the ladies of WIP – Betty, Donna and Lynda. They were there for the start of the book, have added their thoughts, ideas and criticism to it, and will be here to see it completed. I couldn’t ask for better friends.

The creation of Jenevra Couressime owes a lot to watching hours of classes at Katy ATA. The group of young people who trained and taught together for several years, with my own children, Andy & Eleanor, showed that leadership and responsibility can be handled by teenagers with a degree of kindness not seen too often in martial arts. I will always remember and be grateful for the friendships we made there. Particular thanks go to the ladies: Taryn Nida (of the art work), Whitney Borgman, Angie Stubler, Morgan Brasier, Sarah Woods, and our dear friends Beth and Kelsey Roberts.

Thanks also to Carol, Gerry, and Chris Frentz, owners and instructors; Louis Mckay, Jeremy Pyle, Cliff Melody, Daren Fowler, Tyler Haugseth, and Mr. Russell Borgman.

Most of Shadows was written during my four years in Rio de Janeiro. The “cidade maravilhosa” provided much inspiration for the background detail of the book – especially the giant bamboo in Jardim Botanico. With no visa to work, I relied on the friendships I made there to keep me sane – so a huge debt of gratitude to all at Christ Church (the only English-speaking Anglican church in the city) - especially to Sue, Rachel and David Weller, Gaynor Smith, Roy and Noreen Smith, Carole and Ron Lees, and Ruth Watson; the Beney and Carter families, and every member of the choir!

For her many words of advice and hours of companionship at Posto 4 on Copacabana, I raise a glass to Dawn Whipp for getting me through that last year!

There are many others whose friendship and support over the years have meant so much. You know who you are, and I thank you all.

Most of all, I have to thank Kevin. Without his love and encouragement (in women they call it nagging) this book would never have seen print.

PROLOGUE

Thick, clotting blood covered her hands; dark, sticky, under her fingernails, on her face. She could smell the coppery tang in the very innermost core of her being. It was everywhere. Hundreds of faces turned their grieving eyes upon her. Widows and orphans cursed her name; sorrowing, accusing, haunting her forever. As she knelt in the center of darkness, surrounded by the stench of dead and dying, she cradled the body lying cold in her arms, raised her face, and howled in desperate anguish at the Gods.

Her sleeper’s scream emerged as a stifled sob as she woke suddenly. With a ragged breath, and a muted prayer of thanks that she hadn’t disturbed anyone with her nightmare, she rose and slipped past the silent forms sleeping on their mats around her.

In the Temple, she sank prostrate onto the cold stone floor, forehead resting on the backs of her hands. With the images of those accusing faces still before her, she prayed to the seventh God for forgiveness, for absolution for a deed as yet uncommitted.

In the chilled stillness of the early morning, even as she prayed for fate to pass her by, she knew. The future would be as it must; her curse or her salvation.

CHAPTER ONE

Cool breezes scattered the early morning mist in ghostly tendrils through the bamboo grove that covered the crown of the hillside: huge, primeval ferns bowed with dew flowed down the slopes, dappling the pale sunrise into lacy patterns on the soft ground. Only the hushed whisper of silk echoed the breeze as three gray robed figures slipped in between the trees, heading for the small rocky shore; silently waiting, as a gray ship with dappled sails rounded the jagged promontory that sheltered the harbor. With a deep, formal bow, the third gray-clad figure boarded swiftly and moved to the stern of the ship, standing there in silent salute to the two left on the island.

Jenevra Couressime pushed the deep hood of her cloak back and closed her eyes, remembering when this very ship had brought her to the island just over five years ago. Five years that had changed her life beyond anything she had ever expected. She had never imagined then that it would be this hard to leave again. With all her heart she wished she could stay.

The ship’s master was standing respectfully at her right shoulder. “Nimh’a”, he bowed. “A space is prepared for you if it is your wish to use it.” He stepped back, gesturing towards a small cabin near the back of the ship. “I will let you know when we approach.”

Jenevra bowed her thanks, walking into the bare-boarded cabin; her eyes taking in a small crate upturned to serve as a table, and several rather threadbare cushions scattered on the floor, leached colorless by sea, sun and wind. Sitting cross-legged, she pulled the gray cloak from her shoulders, revealing a slender figure in gray tunic and pants. Carefully checking the inside of the cloak for a pocket, she settled back satisfied when she heard a slight crackle of thin parchment. Her mind flitted through the torrent of information she had been given recently, and the bowl of cold fish and fruit sat untouched at her side, as she gazed out of the low window in the cabin. The long line of sea and sky at the horizon changed colors as they sailed; as Jenevra considered the journey lying in front of her: a journey that would take her back into the heart of the Imperial family of the Marissime Empire.

Jenevra thought of her last meeting with Dai’Nimh, the Master of the island she’d just left. Dai’Nimh had been her most senior teacher for much of the time she had been on the island, a significant honor she had been told. Dai’Nimh was old now, and rarely took on any new students for himself, preferring to let the younger masters train them. But Jenevra, well, she’d been different in so many ways. Dai’Nimh had always reminded her of how unique an opportunity she had been given, and the depth of the obligation that placed upon her. At that last meeting, Dai’Nimh had walked the gravel pathways of the stone sanctuary with her, his gentle voice finally explaining part of the reason she had been trained upon the island; why she had been only the second woman in five hundred years to be taken and trained in the ancient arts.

“Obedience to our aims, Nimh’a,” With her eyes closed, Jenevra could hear his voice as if he was walking next to her. “Now, above all else, you must understand that. You have spent five years learning our ways. If I had a choice, you would remain here, in safety, to continue your training. You have already mastered most of the martial skills we can teach you. To become a Master, you must learn the mystical arts. You have it within you, but you can no longer do that here.” Silencing her predictable argument with his raised hand, he had turned to face Jenevra; taking her face between his hands and looking directly into her eyes. “I have seen, Nimh’a. That is all you need to know. It is no longer safe for you to remain here…” He had added the one argument he knew would cut through any objection she thought to make, “Your presence here puts the entire Order in jeopardy. You must leave.”

She had sworn her Oath to the Temple before the three highest ranking Masters. There had been a second ceremony, with just Jenevra, Dai’Nimh, and another; a ceremony that bonded the three of them heart and soul, to death and beyond. Even in her sleep, Jenevra’s hand moved towards the light chain around her neck, and the beating pulse of the talisman she carried there. Every facet of her training on the Island had directed her toward an acceptance of what she was. Willingly, she would give her life for the Order or the Empire should it be required of her. That, she thought, with a wry twitch of her nose, would be the easy part.

The ship sailed on; silently slipping through the water like an aquatic predator. Jenevra spent much of the journey sifting through memories, trying to bring her mind back to her old home; trying to re-establish some mental connection with the girl she had been when she left the Empire. It wasn’t easy. So much of her training on the island had involved excising old thought patterns and behaviors. Yet now her future was bound into reviving those uncomfortable connections.

At sunrise on the seventh day after leaving the Island, the Captain tapped gently on the cabin door, to inform his passenger that they had arrived at their destination.

Jenevra rose to her feet in one fluid motion, gathered her few belongings, and joined him on the deck, glaring in disgust at the swirling sea mist that surrounded them; cutting off her view of the shore.

“A nice mist just off the shoreline, Nimh’a,” the Captain’s solid bulk next to her felt reassuringly substantial in the surreal light. “Good for not being seen by unexpected eyes, yes?”

Jenevra smiled slightly, appreciating the man’s different perspective. “Where exactly will you be putting me ashore?” she asked in the hushed tones people automatically assume in mist and fog.

“We’re just west of Anzaldua, Nimh’a,” the Captain waved his arm indicating the skiff being lowered into the water. “You have a few supplies in here.” He patted a small pack he held out to the princess and inclined his head towards the mountainous coastline just visible through the mist. “We were honored by your presence. Travel peacefully, Nimh’a.” He bowed a final time, deep with respect, and signaled his crew to take their passenger ashore.

With the sea mist already sneaking cold damp fingers through the thin silk of Jenevra’s tunic, she shifted her shoulders against the clinging wetness, and pulled on a heavier cloak offered by one of the sailors, stuffing the light cloak she had worn leaving the Island into the pack.

A few minutes later, the crew had brought the skiff expertly to the shore and, for only the third time in almost twice as many years, Imperial Princess Jenevra Couressime set foot upon Maressime Empire territory.

Never had it felt so unfamiliar, so alien…so very far from home.

Jenevra watched as the sailors were swallowed by the mist once more, then turned and faced into the shore, listening carefully for any sound of someone following. Satisfied that the beach was truly deserted, she swung the pack over her shoulders and began to walk steadily away from the beach. Like a shadow cutting the mist, she disappeared into the forest, and within seconds the foggy shoreline was deserted once more.

Striding upwards into a thick forest of tall dark, fragrant pine trees, Jenevra glanced about warily. As a small child she had grown up in and around forests just like this one, yet after the pale dancing light of the whistling bamboo groves on the Island, the thick branches and resinous scent suddenly felt gloomy and oppressive; the fog twisting, weaving through the trees, closing sight in to a short range. Consciously suppressing an uncharacteristic desire for sunlight, she tightened the straps on her pack and began moving at a slow trot, weaving steadily through the trees, the sound of her feet muffled by the thick litter of pine needles.

For two days she jogged the craggy mountain pathways through the forest; sleeping in brief snatches when a sheltered grove or cave appeared. She ate little and mostly while moving. As the sun slipped behind the sullen mountains, late on the second day, taking the little of the day’s warmth with it, Jenevra walked down the last southern stretch of hillside towards the Plain of Salan. Lake Salanova lay still as ice in the last low glimmers of sunlight, its deep azure reflecting the mountains to its north. Filled with memories, Jenevra paced by the lake’s edge; slowly stretching out her muscles before the evening chill settled into them; munching on a handful of light oatcakes and cheese. The twin moons hung silently in the sky; this early in the year they were as yet slim, silvered crescents, but provided enough light to see on this cloudless night. It felt strange to be alone in this huge space. On the Island, even if she had chosen solitude, there was always the knowledge that there were other people nearby. Silence was frequently preferred by most of the community, but it had been the gentle silence of nature, of tranquility. In this forest, she knew, it would be easy to just disappear. She could go and live a life of her own choosing with no Order or Imperial Court to force her allegiance. Tempting as it was, she knew that following Dai-Nimh’s instructions was part of the discipline she needed to master on her own.

The morning of her third day back in Maressia brought an unwelcome return to the cold of late winter in the mountains. Jenevra woke from her cramped sleep under a fallen pine trunk to find it had sheltered her from most of the snow that had fallen. Shaking her cloak out, she hoped it would stop the wetness from soaking through. It was years since she’d seen snow, but the novelty of the crisp, white flakes was tempered by the thought of traveling in it. She packed her few things together, gritting her teeth as her fingers fumbled awkwardly in the cold. Blowing on her hands, and wishing she had gloves, Jenevra set off for another day’s trek.

CHAPTER TWO

By the time Jenevra approached a small town in the late afternoon, she decided she was ready to be warmer; although a change of clothes could accomplish most of that. But this was where her biggest change would come. Here, she would cease to be one of the Nimhin, for all practical purposes, and would take up once again the role of Imperial Princess.

Jenevra knew she wasn’t ready to rejoin her old life – in fact, the closer she came to it, the more certain she was that, if she had any choice, she would just go away somewhere on her own and live her life out as a normal woman. But, obedience was one thing Dai-Nimh had finally instilled in her. For the Order she would submit to being trapped back in the chains – albeit gilded and bejeweled – of the Empire.

Boots crunching in the frozen ruts of snow, Jenevra passed swiftly through the town, headed for the Inn she had been given the name of. The people there had a son in training on the Island, and had given a pledge of secret haven to any of the Order who passed through. Knocking at the rear entrance, Jenevra passed a small token to the Innkeeper’s wife. The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of it, and she ushered the slight figure in with a bustle usually reserved for their busiest nights.

Jenevra smiled her thanks and introduced herself briefly, trying to deflect the woman’s surprise that Jenevra was female. “Please don’t worry about it,” Jenevra assured her. “I’m the only one. You don’t need to do anything different for me than you would for anyone else from the Order.” But the woman proceeded to fuss, until Jenevra agreed to have a bath drawn up in a room they set aside for her, and to have a warm meal and drink while she waited. As she sipped warm milk, spiced lightly with nutmeg, and felt slightly guilty at the amount of work that had gone into bringing the bathtub and water up into her room, Jenevra nevertheless sank into the hot water gratefully; feeling the heat seep into her; relaxing cold, tired muscles. By the time she was done there was little energy left in the young girl for anything other than to wrap warmly in a heavy blanket and crawl under the bedclothes of a proper bed. Strange though the thin feather mattress felt, it was only a matter of moments before sleep claimed her.

A little embarrassed at waking later than she expected Jenevra realized that her sodden clothes and boots had been taken down to the kitchen to dry by the large fire there the night before. In their place, she had been provided with warm woolen pants and tunic. They were a little big on her but, cheerfully unbothered by this, Jenevra pulled a jacket over them, her thick braid of hair tucked inside. Stuffing her feet, now warmly encased in woolen socks too, into a pair of boots, she headed downstairs to the taproom.

The Innkeeper came beaming across to greet her, having been filled in on all he needed to know by his wife. Pleasantly surprised, as his wife had been, by the quiet affability of their honored guest, he suggested that a table in one of the bay windows might be suitable – near enough to one of the huge hearths to keep warm, but also slightly out of view of the main room, and with a view of the street too. When Jenevra would have helped them with setting up for the day, she was roundly chided by the couple to stay where she was, warm by the fire, with a plate of fruit and cheese to hand. Inwardly appreciating the chance to rejoin normal society gently, Jenevra sat with her chin resting on the heel of her hand, watching the snow beginning to swirl ever faster in the gray light of the day.

The First Flight of the Imperial Army – Eagle Flight (or Border Patrol as they were more commonly known) – rode into Frann amid another chilly swirl of sleet. The few townsfolk out in the icy weather scrambled to get out of their way as the troop of mounted men trotted proudly down the main street, blithely sure of their warm reception. Their Captain, mounted on a prancing palomino, came to a showy halt outside the tavern, signaling his men to dismount also.

Watching from her window seat, Jenevra’s eyes gleamed amusement as the Captain pulled off large gauntlets and began dusting himself down. Adjusting his uniform as best he could and giving a final swat at the feather in his hat to remove the worst of the wet, clinging snow, he flung open the doors of the tavern, calling loudly for the innkeeper.

“Good Morning, Sir. Welcome to the Partridge. What can we do for you gentlemen today? Ale? Dinner? We have a fine roast coming on nicely in the back—”

The Captain waved him to silence, shrugged his heavy cloak off into the hands of one of his men and settled himself into a large carver chair. Leaning forward to warm his hands by the fire blazing merrily in the large hearth, he glanced up at the innkeeper. “All of that,” he said lightly. “And rooms too. We may be staying for a day or so.”

As the thirty or so men of the Flight filed into the large taproom and took seats at various tables, the Captain looked up again as the innkeeper didn’t move. “Is there some problem?” he inquired, a twitch of his eyebrow defying the man to admit it.

“Well, yes, sir. That there is.” The innkeeper replied. “I don’t have enough rooms for all your men, sir, and that’s just the honest truth. There is another tavern on the edge of town, but they only have two or three rooms. I’m afraid the only other thing I could be offering you would be a barn… ” He hesitated and swallowed as he saw the Captain’s face harden. “But it’s as clean and cozy a barn as you could wish to find, sir.”

The Captain pulled thoughtfully at his neatly manicured moustache, and nodded. “Sort it out as best you can,” he ordered. “Make sure they’re all settled somewhere warm and dry.” Waving one of his own men across, he pulled out a large money bag. ‘Sergeant,” he said. “Go along and make sure everyone is recompensed adequately for their lodgings. It looks as though we’ll be here at least for the night. I expect you and Lieutenant Crevaux to be here. Divide the others up as you see fit.” Apparently satisfied that all would be dealt with as he expected, the man turned his attention back to the innkeeper, ordering hot ale for all of the men staying at the Partridge with him, and whatever food was ready.

From the window seat, Jenevra had a good view of most of the room. The men were all in the regular brown uniform of the Imperial Army, but the Eagle emblazoned on each man’s arm in gold thread, left the observer in no doubt that this was the Empire’s elite. And who, Jenevra wondered to herself, did the High Commander of the Imperial War Host, Raik Rabenaldt, feel was good enough to lead this troop? The current possibility for that role appeared to be the self-absorbed man sitting by the central hearth, smoothing out the flaws caused by the sleet to the ridiculous feather in his hat.

It was in the details, she decided as she watched him. His uniform was fitted to perfection. That wasn’t particularly unusual for an officer; especially one of such high rank. But this was his everyday, working uniform, not the Imperial Blue ceremonial regalia, which she would expect to be pristine in every way. Even as he sat there, he seemed to be constantly straightening his jacket, rubbing one or other of his buttons, or twitching a piece of braid into attention. Two of his men were already working on cleaning his boots. The narrow moustache and beard gave nothing away— apart from vanity Jenevra thought— noting with slight contempt the careful trimming that shaped the stubble along his jaw perfectly. Jenevra pulled her lower lip between her teeth as she contemplated the man. She reminded herself that Raik Rabenaldt was not stupid, and would not have appointed anyone he thought unworthy to that position. Whatever this man appeared to be, it remained a distinct possibility that he might be a whole lot more.

She had a fair idea that this arrival was no coincidence. Why would the Empire’s most senior Patrol be out in mid-winter in a tiny town like Frann unless there was a compelling reason … like escorting an Imperial princess? A slight smile shaded her lips as she considered the impression she would make on the soldier across the room. A courtier to the tips of his fingers, he couldn’t fail to note the untidy hair falling around the face, shadowing the angles. With the sloppy clothing, and chipped fingernails clasped around the mug she was holding, there was no way he could suspect her of being the woman he had been sent to meet. Even as she thought it, a surge of hope twitched inside her. There was still time to get away from here. She could at least make it to Salanova without being surrounded by the empire’s finest. As was usually the case with Jenevra, thought and action were almost simultaneous, and she slid out from her place in the window seat, heading for the main door.

What she hadn’t noticed, locked in her own thoughts, was that the officer she was so dismissive of had been watching her equally carefully; wondering what a young lad, of apparently few means, was doing lounging around in an inn. As she reached the door, the officer called out to her.

“You, lad!”

Jenevra stopped, her hand turning the handle ready for a quick escape. Turning her head only slightly, she glared at him from under her bangs. “Are you talking to me?”

Rather surprised by the lack of respect in the youth’s voice, the soldier’s brows drew together, and he pointed directly at her. “Yes, you. And that’s ‘sir’ to you. You know, a stint in the army would do you good. Smarten you up, teach you some respect.”

Flashing a dismissive look at him, Jenevra made no reply, but hurried out through the door, leaving a wide-eyed and almost speechless man behind her. Head down against the biting cold, she walked into the solid bulk of the sergeant, returning from distributing the men for the night. “Oh, sorry,” she muttered, glancing briefly up in apology, and hastening her step out onto the street.

The sergeant rumbled a response as he tried to get through into the warmth of the inn. Halfway through the door, he stopped dead, to a chorus of complaints as the icy wind blew into the room. Even as the officer called out to him, the sergeant turned and left the inn, looking for the figure he’d just passed. Just catching a glimpse of Jenevra heading for the back of the inn, the sergeant picked up his pace to follow, knowing of old that if he didn’t get there quickly, she’d be gone.

The large barn the innkeeper had spoken of seemed to house the majority of the Imperial Flight’s horses. Making an assumption that there was probably at least one extra horse, for her, Jenevra moved softly amongst them until she found one that seemed slightly smaller, and quieter. Stroking his nose, she turned to find a bridle and saddle, only two find two large men blocking her way, slamming her full tilt back into her childhood. The sergeant she recognized. Not just from the inn; she’d known him all of her life. The same was true for his companion. Taller, than most, with a bush of dark hair sticking up from his head, dark beard, and merry blue eyes, he stood with his arms tightly folded, reprimand in his glance.

“Bernardo!” Jenevra gave him a hugely genuine smile.

“Princess,” he beamed at her remembering his name, wiping it off immediately as the shorter man elbowed him in the ribs.

“And Sergeant Brogan.” She turned to his friend, a slightly guilty grin emerging. “You knew it was me, then?”

“You haven’t changed much,” Sergeant Brogan noted, with gruff indifference to rank. “Going somewhere?” He added, nodding pointedly towards the horse.

“I was just going to pop along to Salanova,” Jenevra smiled innocently at them.

“And you’ve told Captain Tessier that, have you?” Brogan folded his arms in mirror image of Bernardo’s stance.

“Who? Oh, you mean the idiot in the inn? Tessier, is it?”

“Brogan, what on earth’s going on out here?” A voice interrupted them.

Brogan’s head slid down into one of his hands, and he rubbed at his face, muttering, “Oh gods,” under his breath. His movement, as he turned to face the newcomer, allowed Jenevra to see that it was the young lieutenant who had accompanied Brogan earlier.

“What’s going on?” He repeated. “Horse thief?”

Brogan and Bernardo drew deep breaths at that; Jenevra just grinned.

“Lieutenant,” Bernardo began. “It’s not what you think.” He took a step back to let Jenevra take a pace forward. “This is the princess.”

Lieutenant Crevaux took a long look at the scruffy figure in front of him. Puzzled, he looked at Brogan and Bernardo, both of whom met his glance with a nod of their head in confirmation. “You are Princess Jenevra?” He said, doubtfully.

Jenevra nodded. “Bit of a disappointment really, aren’t I?”

Lieutenant Crevaux choked slightly. “No, no, Your Highness…well,” a smile began to twitch his lips. “Really?” He asked. “I mean, seriously, Brogan…”

“Really, Lieutenant,” Brogan said. “Bernardo and I have known her Imperial Highness for many years. Sadly, there is no mistaking her.” He winced as Jenevra punched him in the arm.

“Well, in that case,” the young lieutenant drew himself up. “May I have the privilege of being one of the first to greet Your Highness on your return?” He made a small bow.

“That’s nice,” Jenevra said. “Now that all the formalities are met, and we’ve all been introduced, can I go?”

“No, you can’t.” Brogan took firm hold of Jenevra’s arm and began walking. “You’re coming in to meet Captain Tessier, and then you’re coming to Salanova with us. You can’t go wandering round on your own. You’re a member of the Imperial family.”

“So?” Jenevra dragged her feet. “How do you think I got here? And no-one knows who I am. He didn’t even believe I am who I am,” she tossed her head indicating Crevaux who was following with Bernardo. “Come on, Brogan. I can just meet you all at Salanova. No-one need ever know I got there on my own.” Catching the look on his face, Jenevra subsided, allowing herself to be marched into the inn, directly up to the officer pacing moodily in front of the hearth.

“Captain,” Brogan started to explain, but was cut short.

“You, boy, are starting to get on my nerves,” Captain Tessier poked a finger at the princess’s chest. “I’ve a good mind to clap you in irons and you can see how a spell in the dungeons in Salanova suits you.”

Jenevra’s eyes narrowed at the finger prodding her. “Move it, or lose it.”

“What?” Tessier’s voice rose angrily.

Attempting to avert disaster, Lieutenant Crevaux stepped between them, gesturing at Sergeant Brogan to make the necessary introductions.

“Captain,” Brogan announced loudly. “I have the honor to present Her Imperial Highness, Princess Saphila Jenevra Couressime. Princess, I present Captain Tessier.”

Jenevra smiled rather sardonically at Sergeant Brogan, even as she held out her hand, with chipped fingernails, for a stunned Captain Tessier to kiss—as befits an Imperial Princess. “Thanks, Sarge,” she said.

“Oh, gods,” Brogan said again, catching the look on his captain’s face.

Embarrassed beyond belief, Captain Tessier took the first opportunity to leave the inn, ostensibly to check on the men stationed elsewhere in the town; in reality, he needed time for him temper to cool. Lieutenant Crevaux took the chance to speak to the princess, asking her why she hadn’t introduced herself straightaway to the Flight.

Jenevra sighed. “I don’t really know.” Her eyes went distant for a moment. “I guess it’s just that I’ve been away so long. I don’t even feel like an Imperial Princess, much less act like one again. Although, there are plenty of the Imperial family who would tell you that I never did act like a Princess. Brogan would tell you too.”

“How do Brogan and Bernardo know you, Your Highness?”

“Can we dispense with the ‘Highnesses’, please?” Jenevra looked round for Sergeant Brogan but he was nowhere to be seen. “Brogan’s known me for years,” she began to explain. “When I was really small I would try to get out of the Palace, and as often as I could, I’d follow the Border Patrol. Commander Rabenaldt was their Captain then, and I’ve known him since I can remember, so I would try to follow him. It usually ended up with Brogan and Bernardo having to take me back to the Palace.” She smiled gently then. “I’m surprised they didn’t grow to hate me; always getting stuck with chasing a small child round the Palace … but they never did. They always looked out for me. There are few people I trust as much as I trust them.” She shook her head. “It’s a good thing they were here to identify me to your Captain. I don’t think he’d have believed me if I’d told him.”

Sharing a smile, Lieutenant Crevaux chuckled quietly. “No, I think you really managed to shake him. He’s usually very calm and collected. He’s an excellent Captain,” he added loyally.

Jenevra found that by early evening she was exhausted. It was the most company she had been in for such a very long time, and simply the volume of that many people in one room was overwhelming. Excusing herself, she wandered upstairs to her room. A brief note, pushed under her door a few minutes later, was her only communication from the Captain, informing her that they would be leaving the following morning, whatever the weather conditions. Holding the very edge of the paper into the fire, she watched as the note burned, fiery motes flying up the chimney and into the frosty night.

The ride to Salanova was uneventful. Captain Tessier rode at the head of the Flight, insisting that the princess should ride in the middle of the column for protection, much to her frustration. Already the feelings of being surrounded and trapped were growing in her, and her temper was fraying quickly.

Lieutenant Crevaux and Sergeant Brogan were kept close to the front by the Captain, leaving Bernardo and the Flight’s best horseman, Kallan Bana, to ride with the princess.

Salanova, the capital of the Maressime Empire, was a good four days from Frann in good weather. The late snow slowed them down considerably. Aware that Captain Tessier would like to be able to blame her for the pace, Jenevra made every effort to improve her riding, never complaining, never asking to stop for rest. Two days ride from the city, they made camp for the evening sheltered in a small grove.

Jenevra needed some space, a little time alone. Giving Bernardo the impression she had female needs to take care of, she disappeared into the trees, walking into the darkness and quiet with a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Establishing their camp with quiet efficiency, the men were soon gathered round a fire, while Bernardo began cooking. As a kettle of tea came to boiling, and they began dipping out mugs of it, Brogan asked Bernardo if he’d seen the princess. Before Bernardo could answer, and unaware of his friendship with the young Princess, Captain Tessier interrupted loudly. “How would he know, Brogan? Tell me, how would anyone know … that … was an Imperial Princess? Great Tore, how would anyone know it was even a girl?”

“That’s a bit harsh, Captain,” Lieutenant Crevaux objected.

“Why?” Captain Tessier said. “How can that possibly be harsh? You saw her.”

Brogan, spotting the tell-tale signs of rare anger in Bernardo put a warning hand on the tall man’s shoulder.

“I mean how can she even be a Couressime?” Tessier continued. “If she’s the sister of Christiana Couressime, then I must be the High Priest of Tore! Christiana is beautiful—stunning even. Dammit, even the brothers are good-looking too. If that stunted, scrawny thing is related to them, it certainly brings meaning to “runt of the litter!”

Bernardo, Brogan and Crevaux were not the only ones to voice protest at this; it being an unusually vicious comment from their Captain. Normally, he was charm itself with women … any women. Always seen around Court with at least one adoring young woman hanging onto his arm; Tessier was rarely without a flattering comment or a suggestive wink for anything in a skirt. Not one man around the fire could remember him ever reacting like this to anyone, much less a member of the Imperial family.

“What a fascinating insight, Captain.” Jenevra’s voice cut clearly through the men; a path appearing as they melted away from her, leaving the princess directly facing a deeply embarrassed Captain Tessier. “And how brave of you.”

“Your Highness, I—”

“Oh don’t apologize, Captain,” Jenevra held her hand up to halt his words. “Please don’t feel you have to do that. I’m sure you have an excellent reason for everything you said, and it’s good to know you’re not a man to shy away from speaking the truth.” She was mildly satisfied when he looked away first, his teeth gritted against the retort he obviously wanted to make.

Taking a deep breath, Tessier tried again. “Princess, I’m sorry… ”

“For what? Saying what you did, or sorry I heard it? I should keep your apology if I was you Captain, because I wouldn’t believe it.” She turned to walk away; hesitating momentarily to look back over her shoulder. “One day, Captain—assuming my cousin decides to leave your head attached—you may be able to apologize sincerely. I shall look forward to that.” She swept off to a small rise at the edge of the grove and settled down with her back against a tree, staring off into the distance.

For the rest of the evening uncertainty hovered around the Patrol like a swarm of mosquitoes: none of them sure of how to approach either their Captain or the princess. Most of the Flight gathered around the fire, but Bernardo stood watch over her in the moonlight; her knees drawn up under her chin with her arms clasped firmly around them. Strands of long dark hair were blowing around her face, having long since escaped from the braid she had tied on the ship. As the pale cold light caught her, Bernardo felt a surge of his old protectiveness for her flood back. She had told them as they rode that she had changed. He could see it in her eyes, and in the tension built into her posture. More than anything he wanted to roll time back until some of the warmth and joy that had been the younger Jenevra came back; even the mischief, the nonsensical pranks that had landed her in trouble on more than one occasion. But it was gone, or buried deep. Leached out of her like the moonlight stole the color from her skin.

Bernardo sighed, watching her until sleep claimed him. As he lay dreaming of the tiny girl who, so many years ago now, had taken the place of his dead infant daughter in his heart, he didn’t see Jenevra pull his cloak up over his shoulders. He didn’t feel the light touch of her hand against his face. He didn’t know, and she would never tell him.

CHAPTER THREE

In the misty light of early morning, Jenevra left the sleeping camp, slipping past Tessier’s sentries with contemptuous ease. She had tied her pack onto the horse she had been riding, and left it tethered with the others. At least, she reasoned, that way they would know she had left of her own will. With her swords slung crossed over her shoulders, Jenevra broke into a steady run towards the east, reveling in the freedom; enjoying it one more time before the palace gates closed her in. The snow was far lighter here on the plain, and Jenevra made good time, happily climbing over a small outcrop of moraine that she knew would take the horsemen at least six hours out of their way. Moving easily as her muscles warmed up, she made swift progress the next day around the city to the far southwestern side, nearest to the palace. Undetected as she climbed over both city and palace walls, the princess shook her head in disgust at the ease with which she entered the palace. Climbing and hopping her way along the balustrades and ledges of the Imperial palace, Jenevra found the window she was looking for, slipped a slim knife under the latch, and dropped softly inside the room.

Although the heavy drapes were closed, the banked fire gave enough light to show Jenevra that her cousin, His Imperial Highness, Phillip Orsatti Marissun was deep in an innocent and untroubled sleep; laying flat on his back in his large canopied bed, a faint smile on his face. Taking a seat on the far end of the bed, Jenevra stretched her legs out, and laid her swords across her knees, sitting patiently until the chilly draught from the open window brought Phillip to unwelcome consciousness. “I thought you were going to sleep all day, Flip,” she announced, as his eyes flickered open, and he registered her presence with shock.

“Jenn?” Phillip responded sleepily to the childhood name she had used, before snapping wide awake in shock. “Jenn?” Speechless, Phillip jumped out of bed and hugged her tightly. Snatching up a dressing gown, he tied it hurriedly, and drew her across to a sofa near the fire. Raking his long dark hair away from his face, he beamed at her. “So the convent’s let you out for the wedding then?”

“Convent? Wedding?” Jenevra pulled away slightly, chewing on one side of her lip. Of all of them, she trusted Phillip. She knew that he too was playing a role he had little taste for; thrust into the duties of the Empire through the actions of others rather than his own choice. They had always understood each other; and his forthcoming accession to the throne was one of the reasons she had been sent back. But, it had been five years. Had everything changed between them? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only just arrived here.” She watched him, warily. “I guess I should see the Empress, but I wanted to see you first.”

She saw Phillip’s eyebrows rise at her use of his mother’s formal title, but he didn’t remark on it; knew better than most how strained that particular relationship had been. “How did you get in here?”

Jenevra blew derisively through her mouth, muttering about incompetent guards, as she pulled the window closed and slipped her hand into a pocket, retrieving a sheaf of thin pieces of paper Dai-Nimh had entrusted to her. Holding the packet in both hands, she made as if to give it to him, and then paused. “Can we talk, Phil, please? This might take a while.” She knew she might not get a second chance to talk to him this freely once her return was known throughout the palace.

Phillip nodded, puzzled by her seeming composure, and sat back ready to listen.

Letting out a long slow breath, Jenevra spoke, quietly and fluently for half an hour as they sat by the fire; interrupted only when Phillip wanted clarification of something. When she finished, Jenevra pressed the small paper packet into his hands. “Now you can read this,” she said.

Phillip didn’t say anything, but opened the packet immediately and read the contents thoroughly. Silently, Jenevra watched him, eyes trained on his face as he read the letter that Dai’Nimh had given her for him. The only instruction had been that she was to give the letter to the Emperor-to-be when he was alone, and it was only to be given to him; not to Arrilia Neilla, just to Phillip.

As he finished reading, Phillip folded the pages of the letter neatly, rose to place it inside a carved wooden box on his mantle shelf, and turned to his young cousin thoughtfully. “Is it true?”

“Is what true? I don’t know what was in the letter, Phil. Dai’Nimh just told me to give it to you.”

Phillip dark eyes gleamed with teasing amusement. “Since when would that have stopped you?”

Jenevra shrugged. “Dai’Nimh said not to read it, so I didn’t. It’s that simple.”

“Hmmm,” Phillip wasn’t convinced. “I guess what I’m asking is, why has this ‘Order’ sent you back to us … me … I mean, the Empire, and why now?” His dark brows drew together as he considered those things left unsaid. “Apparently, it was no convent you’ve been in….”

“Why d’you keep talking about convents?” Jenevra pursed her lips. “As for why I’m here now…you know, Phil, I could have been anyone, sitting there on the end of your bed, with two swords. You could have been dead hours ago.” She rolled her eyes. “All I’ve been told is that I should be here to keep you safe. Nothing else.”

“No, no, this is all too mysterious, Jenn. It says I should let you help to defend the Empire. Obviously that’s just ridiculous. You know, when I saw you at the end of the bed, I just thought they’d let you home for the wedding.”

“What wedding?” Jenevra shook her head. “Honestly, Phil, I’m not sure we’re talking about the same things at all. I’ve been sent back to look after you. That’s all. Although given how easily I got in here, it looks like I’m none too soon.” Jenevra mimed sitting on the bed, indicating her swords and drawing her finger across her throat, as Phillip shook his head at her, fished the letter out of the box again, and re-read the last page.

“My wedding,” Phillip finally answered her question. “To Chris…you know, your sister. In about a month or so.” Phillip continued reading, missing the stricken look on his young cousin’s face. “This Dai-Nimh person seems to know an awful lot about what’s going on here.”

Trying to pull her thoughts together, Jenevra took a deep breath and tried to focus on the immediate issues. “He knows most of what’s going on anywhere, Phil. The Order has people everywhere who report all sorts of information back to them. It’s fairly rare for one of us to be sent out to take part in anything away from the Island … on any sort of long-term basis anyway.”

“Us?” Phillip glanced quizzically at her. “You mean it’s really true, what he said about you being one of them? You don’t look like a monk or a warrior come to think of it. I mean, you’re a bit, well … small … aren’t you?”

Jenevra shrugged and chewed on her lip again. “I guess that’s how it looks to you. But that never mattered on the Island. No one in the Order cared how tall I was, how big I looked, or what gender I was. All that mattered was that I was chosen, as we all were, and I completed the same training. There are no breaks for any reason; we all train on the same tasks. I completed the highest level of training that the Order holds—”

“Yes, that’s what this letter says,” Phillip interrupted. “But it doesn’t tell me what that level is. It just says that I should trust you.”

“Well, don’t you?” Jenevra resumed pacing. “Phillip, I don’t know everything that’s in that letter, but I have spent the last five years training harder than anyone you currently have in your Flights. I could probably sit most of them in the dirt within twenty seconds, no matter how much bigger than me they are.” She ignored the rude noises of disbelief emanating from her cousin. “I can help you. I can be in places other people—soldiers—can’t be. Places like your bedroom,” she added pointedly. Stopping, she turned to face Phillip closely; a seriousness in her eyes that was new to him. “Essentially, dear cousin, you have a well-trained assassin, loyal to you alone.” She smiled, flourishing a small bow. “All you have to do is come up with something to distract everyone from that fact.”

Between them they came up with several ideas, each of which they dismissed. Eventually, Phillip said slowly. “You know there’s one we haven’t considered.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Jenevra could see the reluctance to name it in his eyes.

“Um, no you’re not,” he agreed. “I’m not sure I do either, but it would work, I think.” He gave her another quick hug, and grinned. “If you could just turn your back while I throw some clothes on, dear cousin, I think it would be better if I showed you, rather than just tell you. Come on, it’s time I was up anyway.”

“Imperial Protector?” Jenevra was stunned. She looked at the portrait of her distant ancestor wearing the regalia of a long-forgotten position. “You know the trouble that came about last time the Empire had that position. There’s no way they’d let you bring it back.”

“Let me? Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be the Emperor, Jenn. I could re-create it as a … a … oh, an act of faith in my new Empire … you know, new beginnings, no superstitions … not allowing the past to dictate the future, that sort of thing.”

Jenevra smiled as her cousin stopped, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Yes,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Yes, I like that. I must remember to use that in a speech sometime soon.” Folding his arms, Phillip’s dark brows drew together. “All right then: if I re-create the Protectorship; do you think you can manage it?”

“Well, I guess it kind of makes sense!” Jenevra agreed, hesitantly. “If you’re Emperor, and married to Chris, that leaves Stephan, Richard and me as the nearest blood relatives, and therefore, heirs to the Empire—in the event you and her future Empress-ness don’t get down to children pretty swiftly.”

Phillip’s ears reddened.

“Anyway,” Jenevra continued. “Stephan and Richard will have seats on the Imperial Council, yes?” Phillip nodded, following the line of thought carefully. “So, they would have a conflict of interests. They couldn’t be totally dedicated to training and moving around with an army; and you couldn’t really afford to have them leave you during serious conflicts or threats to the Empire. You would need their presence to keep the balance in the Council?” She paused as Phillip nodded, fingers still drumming on his chin as he thought.

“So, you need someone you can trust, family, to go out on your behalf. I don’t have any seat on the Council, because I’m a girl. Between you, Chris, Stephan and Richard it’s likely that you’ll come up with enough children to put me way down the line for inheriting anything, so, although I’m family, I’m also what you might call expendable. You know you can trust me.” She shared a swift grin with her cousin at that. “Plus, if you make me Imperial Protector, those people who are worried about the history of the position will think it’s just a ceremonial title to give me something to do. After all, hasn’t it always been the youngest member of the Imperial Family who took the title? That would be me, and those traditionalists would never take a female seriously in that role.”

“That’s true, although it was the youngest male adult of the family if memory serves,” Phillip conceded, rubbing long fingers across his jaw. “It’s also the main flaw with the plan. Richard will be convinced it should be him.”

“Phil,” Jenevra looked straight into his face, a gleam lighting her eyes. “You just said you’re the Emperor … or, at least, you will be. You can just tell Richard you don’t want him doing this, and no-one’s going to argue with you, are they?” Her smile grew as she considered the possibilities. “Very neat, my dear cousin.”

As they began walking back through the hallways of the palace, Jenevra became aware of the curious glances they were getting from the servants. She could see the increased deference given to Phillip as heir apparent, in that no-one approached them to question him about the shabby figure walking with him. The wide marble hallways seemed to echo their footfalls, creating noise in a stark environment that felt hostile to the intrusion. “Some things never change,” Jenevra muttered as they ascended an unadorned staircase of more polished white stone. Phillip had been talking to her, but her memories of the place she had grown up in were flooding back, and they were not of happy times.

“…but I don’t want to force you into this. It must be your choice.” Phillip held up his hand as Jenevra started to speak. “I don’t care what they told you on that Island about obeying me, Jenn. You’re my cousin, and I don’t want you getting into this without knowing what’s at stake.”

“I’ve been away five years,” Jenevra said. “I am not who I was; or who you think I am. I can do this—and, just so you know—the one order you cannot change is the last one my Master at the Temple gave me … to protect you and the Empire, whatever the cost. Which reminds me–” She took hold of the talisman hanging around her neck in one hand, and placed the other hand over Phillip’s heart, shaking her head at him to prevent questions as she closed her eyes and drew her own breathing in perfect match with her cousin’s heartbeat. A few moments passed as she used the power of the talisman to connect her to her cousin. Opening her eyes, she answered his unspoken question. “I can find you anywhere now,” she said. “The stone helps me to trace your heartbeat wherever you are. If I’m going to protect you, I have to know where to find you. It’s true!” She saw the doubt in Phillip’s eyes. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.” She gave him a slightly lopsided smile. “Now, if you’d like to order me not to go visit your mother, I’d be more than happy to obey.”

“Your Majesty?” The maid dropped a curtsey. “Princess Jenevra is here.”

Empress Arrilia Neilla, ruler of the Marissime Empire, turned towards the maid. “Very well, Sianna. Bring her to me directly.” A soft, rose-colored robe wrapped around her, the Empress moved smoothly to a small table in an oriel window bay. Pale morning light softened by colored panes of glass dappled the chairs and table as she poured two cups of a fragrant herbal tea, with a slightly trembling hand. At the sound of the door opening she turned, a bitter-sweet smile touching her lips as her youngest niece entered the room tentatively. The Empress’s hands flew, inadvertently, to her mouth, and the breath caught in her throat as Jenevra moved into the light, and Arrilia Neilla saw the girl fully.

“Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Jenevra, welcome home!” Blinking tears from her eyes at her niece’s stiff formality, Arrilia Neilla raised Jenevra’s slight form in front of her from a half curtsey, hugged her close—feeling the rigid resistance—and planted a light kiss on each cheek. Taking refuge in banality, the Empress pushed a cup of tea into Jenevra’s hands. “Sit, sit,” she ordered. “Merciful heavens, look at you, child! Just look at those nails. What on earth have you been doing? You look dreadful.”

Jenevra sat, not replying, but returning a strained smile. What was she expected to say? The Empress was behaving as though nothing had happened; yet it had been her orders that exiled the young princess from family and friends. There had been a long period on the Island when Jenevra had simply hated them all—even while knowing in her heart that she’d do anything to have this woman smile at her like she was doing now. Raking one hand through her hair, she tried to push some of the offending strands away from her face.

Arrilia Neilla gestured at the untouched tea in Jenevra’s hands. “Come on, now, drink up.” At least as uncomfortable with the meeting as her niece was, Arrilia Neilla knew that they both needed time to be around one another again, and that it wouldn’t be easy. She could sense the wariness in Jenevra; a tension that felt so much stranger because of how like her mother, Arrilia Neilla’s sister, Jenevra looked.

“I don’t suppose you’ve been eating properly either?” The Empress sighed. “What are we going to do with you, child? It really is about time you began to take your position a little more seriously, you know. You’ve run around long enough; it’s time to settle down to your responsibilities as a member of the Imperial family.”

Jenevra’s eyes came up sharply at the implied unfairness of the comments.

You know, your mother and I weren’t allowed to run wild the way you have.”

Jenevra was thankful her nails were too short to draw blood; her fists were clenched so tightly.

“Your grandmother would rise in her catacomb if she could see you looking like this.” Arrilia Neilla’s elegant hands waved, encompassing the bedraggled, far less than regal image in front of her. “What can we do with you? A light breakfast maybe? Or something more substantial? You don’t look as though you’ve had a decent meal in months. Then a bath … definitely a bath … and fresh clothes. That will be a start. The rest we can talk about later. Now go eat, bathe and rest. We’ll expect you to join the family at dinner.”

Dismissing her angry, confused niece to the waiting attendants, Arrilia Neilla sank back into her chair, slow tears beginning to course down her face at the damage she now saw her unthinking acquiescence had caused to her.

One of Arrilia Neilla’s main idiosyncrasies as Empress had been to have bathing facilities installed in most of the palace suites. She’d always said that while she might have to put up with differences of speech and manners from visiting dignitaries, there was absolutely no reason why she need put up with their smells also. Jenevra had never been as grateful as now for her aunt’s peculiar notions, and she sank gratefully into a large tub of steaming bathwater, scented with Arrilia Neilla’s own favorite blend. The tub was more than large enough for her to lie back at full stretch, sinking entirely under the water. Raising her head from the scented water, feeling some of the tiredness of travel slough away, she began to feel like she was starting to shed some of her recent life, and finding another piece of the puzzle to putting her old life back together, as far as she would be able to.

Where to start? As the water cooled slowly, Jenevra lay pondering her toes and her options. Finally deciding that the first thing she needed to do was to reacquaint herself with the many secrets of the palace and its people, she walked confidently along the passages and marble hallways until she found the door she remembered. Glancing round to make sure no-one could see; she slipped through the door, letting the heavy tapestry back down behind her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Later that afternoon, Phillip asked for Raik Rabenaldt, High Commander of the Imperial War Host, to visit him. As he waited, Phillip considered the information Dai’Nimh’s letter had given him, and the faith he was being asked to place in his previously unreliable cousin.

“Your Highness?” His steward came quietly into the room. “Commander Rabenaldt’s outside. Chancellor Menzetti is also asking for some time with you today.”

“Send the Commander right in, but ask the Chancellor to leave me a note if it’s urgent. Otherwise tell him I’ll see him tomorrow at our regular meeting. It’s family today. Princess Jenevra has returned to court, and my mother is insisting on a family dinner.”

The steward sighed almost inaudibly at the news, and beckoned the High Commander of the Imperial War Host into the room, closing the door behind him and heading to put the Chancellor off … never an easy task.

The Emperor-to-be watched the tall, broad-shouldered Commander, as he placed his worn leather gauntlets down on the table, ran his fingers through dark chestnut hair and beard liberally flecked with gray, took the flagon Phillip was holding out to him and drank deeply.

Phillip grinned. “You’ve heard, then?”

“Oh Tore, yes.” Raik Rabenaldt drained the tankard. “I hope you’ve got plenty of that, Your Highness. From Brogan’s report and Tessier’s reaction, I think we’re going to need it.”

“You haven’t heard anything yet, Commander,” Phillip’s eyes were sparkling with mirth. “Not only is she back, I intend to make her my Imperial Protector.”

Motioning for the older man to sit at the table, Phillip refilled Raik’s flagon, and poured one for himself. Sitting at the opposite side of the table and steepling his fingers, Phillip rested his chin on them. “I want you to tell me what you know of this ‘Order’ that she claims to be in. She gave me a letter, supposedly from their leader, and I need to know how seriously to take it. I want to know everything Raik. Don’t leave anything out; not even the parts my mother told you not to tell me.” Phillip raised a sardonic eyebrow as Raik’s eyes met his guiltily. “Yes, I know she knows more about it than she tells me, and how much she trusts you.” Phillip paused, judging the time for a little candor to be about right. “I also know, Commander, how much you love each other.”

“Your Highness!” Raik pushed away from the table, avoiding Phillip’s eyes. “Of course I love her—she’s my Empress. I love her as any dutiful subject does.”

“Rubbish! And that’s putting it politely, Raik. I know how you feel about her, and I’m glad for it. Maybe when she’s not Empress any more, you’ll be able to do something about it? She’s been alone long enough, I think.”

Raik’s gray eyes met Phillip’s gaze steadily in acknowledgement. “I hope you’re right. She is my life,” he said simply. With an obvious effort, Raik changed the subject. “Jenevra … well, where to start? You’ve seen her already?”

Phillip grinned. “You know Jenn. She couldn’t wait to see me. She has some suggestions for your palace guards too.”

Raik frowned, but decided to let it go for the time being. “What do you know about the Order?”

“Nothing … except that it’s not the convent we were told she’d gone to.” Although there was quiet accusation in his tone, Phillip wasn’t quite ready to accept Jenevra’s version, or Dai’Nimh’s letter without confirmation.

Raik colored, hesitating momentarily, then continued; his voice just loud enough to carry between the two of them. “They have existed in various parts of the world for many hundreds of years now. All we know about them in this Empire is that they are based in a temple community on an island somewhere.”

“Where?”

Raik shook his head. “No-one knows, Your Highness…”

“Raik, just Phillip will do when we’re alone. You may be my step-father soon, so we might as well get a little less formal now.”

The Commander smiled slightly. “Phillip, then … this island is only seen by initiates who join the Order and, as far as we know, one ship’s crew who are bound to the Order also. No-one has ever succeeded in following them, and yes, people have tried. They usually end up face down on a beach somewhere.”

“So what use is a bunch of monks, or priests or whatever they are, to me, to the Empire?”

“Well, it doesn’t seem to be just a temple, Phillip. They also seem to have a highly organized network in place for obtaining information, and they have strong martial traditions too. We don’t often see them outside of this island of theirs, but rumors spring up in different places from time to time, all suggesting quiet warriors who turn up, give some assistance where it is needed, and then disappear again. All these rumors have the words ‘Order’ and ‘Island’ in them. There are hints and suggestions of other activities; pacts and communications; we truly don’t know too much about that. Their loyalty is absolute, though. No-one who belongs to the Order ever betray it, nor do those who serve them … ever.”

“I don’t know,” Phillip shrugged dismissively. “It all sounds just a bit too vague and unlikely really, don’t you think? And why would Jenevra have found them when no-one else can? Although, let’s be honest, if anyone could get themselves into a situation like that it would be her.”

Raik sat back from the table a little, trying to decide how much to tell his future Emperor. He settled on the truth. “Jenevra didn’t find them,” he said quietly. “They asked for her.”

Phillip choked on his ale. “They did what?” That hadn’t been in the letter.

“They asked for her. They knew exactly who they wanted, and contacted your mother almost six years ago now. Just over five years ago Jenevra left here to go to the Island; as far as we knew to join the Order.”

“My mother knew? And you knew? What about Stephan, or Richard … or Christiana … did anyone think they ought to know where their sister had gone? You said she’d gone to a convent!”

“Your mother wasn’t happy about it, but we were told, very categorically, not to tell anyone where she’d gone—especially you and your cousins. You simply didn’t need to know, and it was a hard enough decision to make anyway. In all honesty what would we have told you? We don’t know where Jenevra’s gone, to whom or for how long, or even why, but we sent her anyway. You really think we could have told you all that?” Raik settled his forearms on the table and reached across to put one hand on Phillip’s arm. “Think about it Phillip. You know what you, Richard and Stephan would have done. You’d have charged off to try to find her. We couldn’t let that happen. You are the heir to the Empire.”

Phillip sat silently for a moment as he digested what Raik was saying to him. Hesitantly, he voiced an unpleasant thought as it came to him. “Did Jenn know where she was going … or why she was being sent? Did you give her a choice?” His dark brown eyes hardened angrily as he saw Raik’s expression freeze, guiltily. “You just sent her … no explanation? For Tore’s sake, Raik, she was only just fourteen! What were you all thinking?” Adding this information to what he’d read in the letter Jenevra had given him, Phillip’s heart churned as he contemplated what the last few years must have meant to her.

“So you think that this is genuine then?” Pushing aside the sudden wave of guilt that he hadn’t looked for her in all the time she’d been gone, Phillip threw the first pages of Dai’Nimh’s letter onto the table for Raik to read; carefully keeping the last few tucked inside his jacket.

Raik’s eyes widened as he saw who the letter was from. “You know you’re not supposed to show this to me, don’t you?” He carried on reading as Phillip motioned him back to the letter. Several silent minutes later Raik put the letter down, his face somber. “Has Chancellor Menzetti seen this?” He asked quietly.

Phillip shook his head. “I wanted your opinion.”

“Well, I’d have to say it was true then.” Raik picked the letter up again. “The seal looks genuine, and some of the information in there we know is true. I suggest we treat the whole situation that way; as if we believe it’s all true.” Raik paused, deciding whether or not to share other information he had. “Don’t dismiss Menzetti so quickly, Phillip; but don’t take his views on the Order too lightly either.”

“The Chancellor knows of this Order too?” Phillip was surprised. “For a supposedly secret organization, there seem to be a lot of people who know about them.”

Raik shook his head. “Not as many as you think, but Menzetti’s only son, Kian, was taken into the Order; and the Chancellor’s never forgiven him for leaving his responsibilities to his own House behind. He hasn’t spoken to his son since the day he left court.”

Phillip digested this news for a moment. “And you really think Jenn is one of them, too?”

Raik looked rather pained. “Honestly? Yes. I’d say it was the only conclusion we could draw from the information we have.” He shrugged helplessly at Phillip’s incredulous look. “I know it sounds bizarre, but your mother received word about a month ago now that Jenevra would be coming back to us; that her time on the Island was done for now, and that she would be returning as an Imperial Princess.” Raik held his hand up apologetically as Phillip started to object. “It didn’t say anything about giving her any position other than her natural one as Princess.” Raik sighed deeply, as he came to the part he’d heard earlier from Sergeant Brogan. “I sent Tessier and my Senior Patrol, to meet her. We knew where she would go to first. The meeting did not go well,” he finished with wry understatement.

“So I’ve heard.” Phillip frowned, remembering seeing a pair of swords on her lap in his room earlier. “You know she’s carrying swords now?”

Raik nodded, moving back towards the table to pick up his cloak and gloves. “We need to think seriously about this whole Imperial Protector thing, Phillip.” Remembering a scrawny young girl who had hung off his coat tails not too long ago, Raik sighed softly. “She spent a lot of time down in the training yards when she was younger. She showed promise then, and that was before she’d been trained on this Island. If she is as good as I think she may be, just bear in mind what you might let loose upon the Empire!”

“Do you really think she could be that good, Commander?” Phillip’s tone made it clear he was asking for a professional opinion.

“The Order doesn’t customarily accept women, Phillip. They have only asked for two in the last five hundred years that we know of. There’s something special about her if she was one of those two. I told you Menzetti’s son, Kian, trained in this ‘Order’. He hadn’t completed all the levels of training, but he is the only person ever to beat me in hand to hand combat. Jenevra, if that letter is true, has completed a higher level than that. If that makes her a better warrior than Kian then, one on one, I can’t think of anyone I know who could defeat her in a fair fight.” Laying his cloak over his arm, Raik headed towards the door. “I know this all sounds strange right now, Phillip. But, if we don’t want Jenevra going off on her own plans, I really think we should talk this through with her…and with your mother. Maybe tonight, after dinner would be as good a time as any?”

Keeping his own ideas to himself for now, Phillip nodded. “So you’ll be joining us for our family dinner then, Commander?” He grinned. “Just make sure you wear your armor!”

Taking note of everything Commander Rabenaldt had said and adding it to what he knew from Dai-Nimh’s letter, Phillip decided that one thing at least he could and would do for his cousin. Making his way to the Imperial barracks, he tracked down Captain Tessier. The two men knew each other well, but it wasn’t often that Phillip asserted his rank, and Blaise Tessier had rarely seen the grim expression on Phillip’s face as he approached.

“Your Highness,” Tessier began.

“Shut up, Tessier,” Phillip ordered shortly, pushing the startled Captain back into a corner. “I don’t care what’s gone on between you and my cousin. No!” He cut across Tessier as the Captain opened his mouth to explain. “No … I don’t care, Tessier. Nothing you can say can excuse your behavior to her. If I know you, you were just infuriated that you’d been practicing your best lines all the way to Frann, and then couldn’t bring yourself to use them on what you considered to be an unattractive girl who wasn’t throwing herself at you.”

The tell-tale flush on Captain Tessier’s face told Phillip he was pretty close to the truth there. “Well, Blaise, I am telling you, here and now, that if you do or say one thing to hurt Jenevra you will be answering to me … as your Emperor. And I will not be inclined to look on any repetition kindly. You have no idea what my cousin has been through. Treat her with anything less than respect again, and I swear I’ll have your head. Do we understand each other?”

“Er, yes, Your Highness … perfectly.” There wasn’t much else Captain Tessier could say in the face of Phillip’s tirade, but the young Emperor-to-be fixed his dark eyes onto Tessier’s face until he was satisfied that his words appeared to have been taken most seriously.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jenevra paced about her rooms. They hadn’t changed at all in the years she’d been gone. On the western side of the palace, the windows faced out onto the massive expanse of the Northern Coural mountains. She never tired of looking at them: it was one of the few things she had truly missed on the Island. Distantly she could see the high white waterfalls that began with the spring thaw each year; icy, crystal streamers floating down the darkness of the rock faces. The sun was high overhead, throwing a clear light onto the nearer mountains, picking out the high snowfields and brightening the clear green of the budding trees on the lower slopes. Even down at the palace’s level, the air was still crisp and clear. Jenevra threw the windows open, even as a maid rushed in to light a fire in the huge fireplace.

“Please don’t bother with that,” Jenevra told the girl.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” A new voice overrode the order. “The princess will catch her death. And if she doesn’t, I most certainly will!” A slender woman dressed in deep wine colored velvet, bustled into the room. Ash blonde hair was pulled neatly back into a net of gold thread, and tilted dark eyes gave her an exotic beauty. Serena Massili was one of Arrilia Neilla’s oldest friends, and had spent a great deal of time with all of the children in the Imperial family as they grew up. Although not a close blood relative, all of the young royals called her Aunt. She was also sister to one of their other favorites, Admiral Rafael Massili; as flamboyant as his sister was proper, he fulfilled as many criteria of the ubiquitous tall-tale-telling seafarer as anyone could do. As Commander of the Imperial Fleet and Duke of Trevannta in his own right, Admiral Massili had also spent a great deal of time at court, never failing to have new tales of maritime conquest and lovers. Arrilia Neilla and Serena had spent a disproportionate amount of time trying to curtail his more lurid exploits from being aired to young and impressionable ears, but they would always find him holding forth to the children somewhere, as they listened wide-eyed to his tales.

Clasping her hands together primly, Serena scrutinized the scruffy girl in front of her. “Your aunt asked me to help you get ready for dinner.”

Jenevra looked puzzled. “It’s only just afternoon. I have hours until dinner.”

“Indeed, and how long do you think it’s going to take us to have you ready?” Serena waved an elegantly manicured hand at the unkempt princess. “I’ll be amazed if we’re ready by dinner.”

“It’s not that bad.” Jenevra rolled her eyes, taking hold of the end of her braid. “It’ll only take me a couple of minutes to re-braid this, and I can sling a clean dress on in next to no time.”

Taking hold of the tangled mass of hair in the braid, Serena shuddered “Re-braid? This? I think not, my dear girl. And as for ‘slinging’ a dress on—we call them ‘gowns’, Jenevra, and ladies never ‘sling’.” Looking around the room and then at Jenevra’s current outfit she asked pointedly, “Do you actually have a gown to put on?”

“I’m sure I must have some here somewhere.” Jenevra shrugged. “I mean, I didn’t take them with me, and I haven’t grown that much since I’ve been away, I don’t think.”

“Didn’t take them with you? What have you been wearing then?” Serena looked at the travel stained clothing her charge was standing in, taking in the overall dullness of the gray ensemble, the stained and wrinkled raw silk tunic, and worn, dirt encrusted boots. As Jenevra indicated that this was, more or less, what she’d been wearing, Serena went pale and called loudly for the maids, shaking her head. “Do we have any of her Highness’s gowns still here?” she asked the first girl to enter.

“Yes, my Lady. We kept them all in the chest over by the window.” The maid moved to a huge cedar chest, opening it up to display a selection of gowns carefully folded and stored.

“Well, lift them out then, we can’t see what we’ve got if they’re stuck in that box, and they’ll need to be aired anyway.” Serena took charge with the quiet efficiency Jenevra remembered. “They look to be in decent condition at least,” Serena held the first one up to the light at the window. “Still, the main thing is, do they actually fit you?” She held the gown out to Jenevra. “Come on, Jenevra! Try it on.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now. Anna,” Serena addressed the maid standing by the chest. “Help her Highness with this gown would you?”

“I don’t need anyone to help me dress, thank you,” Jenevra objected.

Unimpressed, Serena continued pulling dresses out of the chest as Jenevra disappeared behind a large screen at the far end of the chamber. Anna, the maid, stood to the side of the screen, fidgeting nervously as she listened to the muffled sounds of irritation coming from behind it. Finally, Serena intervened. “Anna,” she said clearly, so Jenevra could hear her. “Would you please check on the princess’s progress with that gown?”

Bobbing a curtsey, Anna rescued Jenevra from the fiendish devices of petticoats, tunics and overdresses. In less than a minute she had laced Jenevra into one of her old gowns, and brought her out for Serena’s critical inspection. “No, no, that won’t do at all.” Serena swept across the room, hands held up in horror. “Anna, call the seamstress, immediately. You cannot possibly be seen like that, Jenevra.”

Jenevra looked down at her feet, which were all too visible beneath a hemline that finished about five inches shorter than needed. “I guess I did grow some, then,” she concluded. “Can’t we just extend this one down a bit, Aunt Serena?” She pulled at parts of the dress hoping it would somehow magically become acceptable.

Half an hour later saw Jenevra standing like a pincushion while Serena and the seamstress discussed a whole new wardrobe. “I only need one dress, for tonight, Aunt Serena. Can’t we just make over one of the old ones?”

Serena and the seamstress exchanged disbelieving looks. “Stand up straight, Jenevra.” Serena’s crisp tone advised. “Slouching isn’t an acceptable stance for a Princess.”

Fortunately Serena was engrossed in discussing material choices and failed to hear Jenevra’s mumbled opinion of what was acceptable for princesses.

When the dressmaker had finally disappeared, with armloads of material and ears full of Serena’s instructions to whip her small army of needlewomen into frantic action, Serena began on phase two of the new improved Jenevra. Calling for a bath to be drawn, she completely ignored Jenevra’s objections that she’d already had a bath. By the time she’d been scrubbed, rinsed, washed, buffed and brushed, Jenevra’s irritation was almost palpable. She sat fuming on a chair in front of the fire, wrapped in a heavy brocade dressing gown, with a maid brushing her hair out to dry. When she tried to reach for the brush herself, Serena had slapped her fingers. Jenevra gritted her teeth, mentally going through meditative exercises she’d used on the Island. After five years of taking care of herself, and appearance not being a priority, she was finding this fuss entirely too much.

Serena took a seat in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. Yet another maid took a hot iron from the fire and warmed two goblets of wine with it. As sedately as her name implied, Serena nursed her goblet between her hands, smiling benignly at the glowering Princess. “There, Jenevra, isn’t this cozy?”

Jenevra scowled, dark brows drawing together. “I feel like … well, I don’t actually know what I feel like, Aunt Serena, but I don’t like it.”

“Very articulate, dear,” Serena noted, blithely ignoring Jenevra’s mood. “You need to realize that you have grown up now. I know you’ve been away, and it doesn’t look as though you had much time or incentive, but you simply cannot continue with such disregard for your appearance. You are an Imperial Princess …”

“Don’t remind me! All this prissy pampering is just ridiculous.”

“ … And you will be required to comport yourself as such. How else do you expect to secure a husband?”

“A what? What husband? I don’t want one. I don’t need one.”

“Jenevra, don’t be so naïve. Your primary role as an Imperial Princess is to provide the Empire with a beneficial tie.”

“Tie, to who?” Jenevra was becoming slightly rattled now.

“It’s to whom, dear. And ‘whom’ ever the Empire needs to have a closer link to.” The maid brushing Jenevra’s hair finished and left the room quietly. “You do have beautiful hair, Jenevra.” Serena noted. “Just like your mother’s.” She picked up the brush the maid had left and moved over to behind Jenevra, drawing the brush through almost hip-length brown hair, lit from within by strands of deep chestnut, with tones of honey and amber. “I remember brushing her hair like this the day she married your father,” she mused. “We were here, in this room, Neilla, Saphila and I. She sat here, and I brushed her hair. You look just like her, you know, Jenevra.” Serena stroked Jenevra’s hair gently. “She was so beautiful …”

“Can’t have been quite so much like me then.” Jenevra’s tone was brittle.

Serena was startled. Having always taken the admiring glances she received for granted; it never occurred to Serena that an attractive woman would not be aware of her own charms. Standing in front of Jenevra, she pulled the girl to her feet and dragged her across the room to where a large cheval mirror stood. Moving behind her, Serena put her hands either side of Jenevra’s head, pointing her towards the mirror. “You are the living image of your mother. How can you possibly think you are anything less than beautiful? Just look, Jenevra!”

The princess shrugged. “I am looking. It’s just me.” She saw a medium height, slim girl with dark hair and a light complexion gazing coolly back at her.

“You obviously don’t see what the rest of us do then,” Serena couldn’t quite believe that Jenevra could be so indifferent to how she looked. “You really are quite lovely, Jenevra; at least when you’re clean.” That brought a smile to both their faces.

“Chris is the pretty one. We all know that.”

“You’re different, that’s all. Christiana is beautiful, yes. But so are you.”

“You’re biased, Serena. It’s sweet of you, but no-one would give me a second glance if Chris was in the same room.” Jenevra turned away from the mirror. Vanity wasn’t a problem for her, but no young woman likes to dwell on how much less attractive they think they are than someone else, and that obnoxious Captain who’d escorted her back here had made it quite clear she wasn’t up to Court standards.

“Hmm, you’ll soon see when the young men of the court realize you’re back.” Serena was supremely confident of her assessment of the princess’s looks, and ignored the disparaging noises coming from the young girl. “Now, sit down again, Jenevra while I call someone to deal with those growths you call nails. How you ever imagined you would be ready for dinner in a couple of minutes… ”

A ‘Family Dinner’ at the Marissime Court would normally have meant at least thirty people, but Arrilia Neilla had been unusually insistent this evening, and a much reduced group congregated in the small dining room adjoining Arrilia Neilla’s own suite. Huge branched candelabra stood around the room bathing everything in their golden glow. Rich burgundy draperies closed the windows from view, adding to the warmth in the room. Emperor-to-be Phillip Marissime, looking dashingly handsome in his customary black and silver, stood leaning idly on the back of his mother’s chair. Her Lady-in waiting and friend, Lady Lennia Manvi was accompanied by her son, Mikyle, Imperial Guard Captain, and companion of the future Emperor. Commander Rabenaldt attended as a close family friend, as did Admiral Rafael Massili, who was holding forth with another of his outrageous tales, making Lennia blush (something she swore was impossible after so many years at court).

When Serena and Jenevra joined the group, completing the dinner party for that evening, Admiral Massili roared his delight, picking her up and swinging her round until the other ladies managed to persuade him to put her down. “Rafael, do you have any idea how long it took me to get her ready?” Serena fumed. “And here you go ruining all my good work.”

“Nonsense, Serena,” Rafael beamed at Jenevra. “Girl’s as pretty as a picture, eh? Looks just like her dear mother.”

Jenevra froze. The phrase jarred.

“He’s right, though,” Phillip came over, raised Jenevra’s hand and kissed it; amused by her evident embarrassment. “You look nice. Welcome home, Jenn.”

Several minutes of mutual hugging and welcoming went on. On the Island, everyone had kept their emotions to themselves, and Jenevra found this sudden exposure to mass tactile affection highly unsettling. The dressmaker had done a miraculous job of having a gown ready for that evening, and even Jenevra’s self-critical eyes could find little to dislike in the flowing green velvet gown which was of a softer style than that worn by the more mature ladies of the group. Her hair was loose, which felt strange after the braid she had worn for five years, but the rich mass set off a thin circlet of gold studded with emeralds to perfection. The glow provided by the dozens of candles in the room warmed her skin, picking out auburn lights in her hair.

As they moved towards the table, Jenevra found herself next to Raik Rabenaldt. He alone had not joined in the general hugging a few moments before. He gave her an amused look. “Hello, trouble.”

“Not pleased to see me then, Commander?” Jenevra had called him Raik since she could remember, but somehow it just didn’t seem right this evening.

“We’ll see.” He crossed the room to find his seat by Arrilia Neilla. His casual dismissal of her return hurt somehow, and Jenevra bit on her lip again, until a sharp elbow from Serena brought her back to the moment. Sitting between Phillip and Mikyle, Jenevra picked at her food. Mikyle Manvi was always quiet; his peaceful demeanor was only ever belied on the battlefield where he demanded, and got, the very utmost out of the men in his Flight. In his formal uniform of blue trimmed with silver, Mikyle sat stiffly at the table focusing on his food. A couple of years older than Phillip, he had always taken his position seriously; culminating in his early promotion to the rank of Captain of the Third Flight of the Imperial Army at twenty five, two years ago. He seemed unusually shy in Jenevra’s company though, even when she tried drawing him into conversation; giving up when the answers remained monosyllabic.

Phillip was trying to listen in to the conversation on the other side of the table where Raik and Rafael were already disputing tactics while the ladies tried to persuade them that the dinner table was not the place for those discussions. Before long, Phillip had given it up as a bad job and engaged Mikyle in a discussion about the activities of King Corros, monarch of the neighboring realm of Diruthia, frequently a thorn in the side of the Empire.

Jenevra pushed her food around her plate dispiritedly. The suddenness of all the changes she had been through over the last few weeks was starting to catch up with her. Although she had trained to put physical fatigue to one side at the temple, she knew that the emotional strain would begin to take its toll soon, if she didn’t get some quiet time to process everything that was happening to her. Remembering the peace and quiet of the temple brought an almost physical pain, and Jenevra’s hand moved to the talisman she wore around her neck, her fingers absently tracing over the design: the distant vibration increasing within her as she touched it. It was so tempting just to hold on to it and forget why she had been sent back. She felt totally disengaged from everyone in the room, but she knew she couldn’t return to the Temple. She sighed quietly. If she could have just one hour back with Misha, her partner at the Temple; not to talk, just spending that time quietly in each other’s presence was somehow soothing. Here, her mind was drifting back to the bitter resentment she had felt when she was sent to meet a small group of men who had taken her, without explanation, to her life in the Order. How could the people here in this room now, just sit there and pretend it had never happened; expect her to smile and talk as if she had just popped out to visit a close friend for a few days?

Phillip’s voice whispered in her ear. “Are you all right, Jenn?”

She ghosted a smile at him, laying her hand on his. “I’m fine, Phil, honestly. I guess I’m just a bit more tired than I thought.”

“You’re sure?” Concern filled his dark eyes. “You know Chris will never forgive me if you’re all sad when she arrives.”

A slightly more genuine grin broke through. “Yes, I suppose that’s the next step; seeing the family again. It’s just been so long; and it’s all going to change again, with you and Chris marrying.”

Phillip squeezed her hand. “At least we’ll all be back here together again. You’re back home now, Jenn: just like it used to be.”

“I hope not,” Jenevra said, more loudly than she’d intended, bringing the conversation at the table to a standstill. Looking around, she realized that she couldn’t bear to stay a minute longer in that closed room. Twisting the end of her sleeve in her hands, she kept her gaze focused on the tablecloth. “It’s been five years,” she said. “And I have changed. Far more than any of you know. No matter how like my mother you all think I am, I’m simply not her, so you’d better get used to that fact. I am me; no one else. So whatever happens from here nothing will ever be the same as it used to be. Maybe there will come a time when we see that as a good thing.”

Biting her lip, she turned towards Arrilia Neilla. “I’m sorry if I spoiled dinner, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to; I’m just not ready for company yet. May I be excused?” Without waiting for a response, Jenevra fled the room and headed out into the gardens. She needed solitude and this was the only place she could think of that would provide it. Striding out along the gravel pathways she passed ornamental bushes and trees, hedges and beds of plants forcing her along pathways she’d all but forgotten. Coming to a large pond with a fountain playing its merry tune of splashing water from the mouth of a large jumping dolphin, she stopped and sat on the marble rim, remembering romping in it as a child. Closing her eyes and stirring the leaf-thin shards of ice forming in the pool with her fingers, she let herself become aware the charm around her neck, feeling the dark pulse deep within her as breathed in meditative rhythm to the water’s flow. Drawing her mind into peacefulness she was still aware of the footsteps on the gravel long before they were next to her. Raik’s solid frame sat next to her on the edge of the pool. Feeling like a small child again, Jenevra looked up at him. “I suppose you’ve come to tell me I’m an idiot?”

“Is that what you think?” he asked softly.

“After the last few days I honestly don’t know what I think.” She sighed.

Raik tipped his head slowly to one side. “Is this a good time to contemplate being Imperial Protector then?”

“Phillip told you.” It wasn’t a question. “It wasn’t exactly my choice, Commander, but could you agree to my being Imperial Protector?”

“You need my approval?”

“I think so. If you think it’s a stupid idea you can make things difficult for me with the rest of the Imperial War Host, so, yes, I need your approval.”

“You’ll need a Patrol of your own, you know. How will you handle that?” Raik’s tone was all business.

Jenevra responded in like manner. “It’s up to you and Phillip, really. I’d rather work on my own, but if I have to have one, then I want a small team. Twenty would be enough.”

“Anything else?”

“I only want men without any other ties. No family, no girlfriends: totally alone. It may be difficult finding twenty with that qualification, but that will be the primary one. Experience is useful, but secondary. I’ll take as many as we can find. I’ll train them in some of the techniques I’ve learned from the Order. I may even have another of the Order join us in time.”

“You really think Imperial Guards will be willing to follow a girl?”

Jenevra smiled in the darkness. “I know you better than that Commander. But for those doubters, I have a simple solution. I will fight them; several at a time until they are convinced.”

Raik chuckled. “My bold little Princess. Confident you can beat them, are you?”

“Yes,” Jenevra said simply. She dipped her hand down into the water, swirling her fingers around, avoiding looking at him. “Master Ki still talks of his fight against you, you know. He was disappointed that you weren’t asked to join the Order. He thought you would have been one of our best.”

“Master Ki? When I fought Kian he hadn’t reached the highest level of your Order.”

“Not then, he hadn’t. You were one of his tests, though, and he went on to complete his mastery. Ki’Nimh was my mentor for most of my time on the Island and he still holds you in great esteem as an opponent.”

“Do you think you could beat me?”

“I think so, yes. But I don’t want to. You know you’ve always been my hero.” There was no boastfulness, just a quiet statement.

“If you’ve reached that level, does that make you a Master, Jenn?”

She laughed; the first time he had heard anything that reminded him of the little girl she had once been. “No. Master is a title that is given when you’ve earned it. I’ve only completed the first part of my training. Ki’Nimh has earned his rank over years of service and experience. In weapons and technique I may be better–in that I’m younger and faster–but he’s far wiser than I can dream of being.”

Raik reached out and patted her hand. “That’s why I won’t oppose your role as Imperial Protector, Jenn. I know the skills Kian had when I fought him. If anyone ever gets past me, I want to be damn sure they won’t get past you.” Raik put his hand on Jenevra’s shoulder. “Your abilities were never in question from me. Now I think you’re beginning to understand what responsibility means too. To be honest, I don’t think I would really trust anyone else with the Emperor’s life.” He stood to leave. “We may have to break some heads to give you a decent Flight, Jenn, but we’ll get there. Try to be patient. Not everyone will be quite as accepting of you straightaway. Coming in yet?”

Jenevra shook her head. “Don’t you think I’ve caused enough trouble for one day? I’m just going to stay out here for a while, and enjoy the peace a little longer.”

“I am glad you’re back, Jenn,” Raik dropped a light kiss on the top of her head. “Your aunt and I have worried about you.” His booted footsteps receded into the darkness, leaving Jenevra alone once more, trying to fight back the exasperation his last statement was causing.

The frustration with everyone’s tacit expectation that she should behave as if she’d never left was growing again. Incapable of sitting still when she was agitated, Jenevra wandered along the pathways, churning things over in her mind. Without really realizing where she was going, she found herself at the top of the east lawn; a long sloping sward of soft grass stretching down towards a large lake. At the top of the lawn was a small temple–the private, personal temple for the Imperial Family. A sense of joyful thanks came over her as she remembered the place, and she opened the small side door. Inside was exactly as she pictured it. Feeling more at home here than anywhere else since leaving the Island, Jenevra bowed her head in prayer and meditation; sitting in silence for an hour or so.

A much calmer princess emerged from the temple, and she wandered along the chill marble hallways of the Imperial palace in a dreamy state, but acknowledging the salutes of the few sentries still on duty; all of whom had been briefed by Commander Rabenaldt who knew Jenevra’s nocturnal wandering habits of old.

It was something of a shock when an arm suddenly blocked her path.

“You really shouldn’t be wandering about alone at night,” a voice she recognized said softly. “You must be new to the palace. Maybe I can help you find your way?” There was an inveigling quality to the voice—a certainty of her acquiescence—that immediately brought back Jenevra’s irritation. For the loss of her peace, as much as anything, she became suddenly and profoundly angry.

“Move it, or lose it,” she snarled, flipping a small but razor sharp knife into her hand, and under Captain Tessier’s chin before he could blink.

The phrase struck an immediate chord and, cautiously taking his arm from in front of the princess, Tessier’s eyes widened as he realized who the young woman was. Phillip’s words echoed in his ears as he took a step back and looked once more at the princess, wondering how he could have mistaken her. Resorting to his usual ploy of charm, he gave a disarming grin. “You can’t really blame me, Princess,” he said, taking in the long, lustrous hair and slender figure in the slightly old-fashioned gown. “Who’d have thought you would scrub up so well? You’re quite a revelation.”

Taken aback by his manner, Jenevra glared directly at the Captain. Expecting to see fury, he was surprised to see confusion in her eyes.

With a strangled sound of utter exasperation, Jenevra pushed past the Captain, striding swiftly towards her rooms without a backwards glance. Thankfully, Serena had seen fit to dismiss her maids for the night, so there was no-one to fuss over her as she wriggled out of her gown. Ignoring the huge canopied bed, Jenevra wrapped herself in a blanket, curling up on the large seat carved into the window recess. The windows had been shut, but Jenevra opened them again, oblivious to the night chill coming off the mountains. Resting her chin on her folded arms, Jenevra watched the mountain waterfalls pouring their ribbons of silver mist against the dark stones until sleep claimed her.

CHAPTER SIX

When Anna, the maid, came in to light the fire the next morning, the princess was already awake, draped in the blanket she had slept in, rifling through the cedar clothes chest. Dropping a quick curtsey Anna asked, “Can I help Your Highness to find something?”

Jenevra flashed a quick smile. “Just looking for the clothes I had on yesterday.”

Picking up the green velvet gown from the bed where Jenevra had thrown it, Anna wrinkled her nose. “It’s a bit creased, Your Highness, and it looks like there are some water spots on it, but I can have it aired and ready for you in a couple of hours.”

“No, not that” Jenevra waved a hand dismissively at the dress. “I mean the tunic and trousers I had on when I arrived. Gray … silk tunic … dark gray trousers … boots?”

Anna looked slightly embarrassed. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but Lady Massili told us to throw them out.”

Jenevra closed her eyes. “Wonderful. But please understand that from now on nothing is taken from my wardrobe without my direct knowledge. Lady Massili is not dictating my clothing.” Pulling open the pack she had carried with her from the Island, Jenevra dug out a spare tunic and trousers, waving aside Anna’s helpful offer of pressing them to remove all the creases. “No thanks,” Jenevra said cheerfully. “They’ll just have to get used to me like this. If you could tell the dressmaker that I would like to see her again later. It looks rather like I’ll need a couple of extra sets of these ready for when Lady Massili tries to throw them out again!” Hopping into her soft boots on her way out, Jenevra slipped down a small stairway that led from the back of her room to a courtyard near the gardens. She made for the stables via the kitchens on the lower floor of the palace. Pausing briefly, she grabbed a couple of carrots and a handful of dried fruits. Chewing on the fruit, she shared the carrots with her horse, rubbing his nose. The stable boy was already up and busy. “Shall I saddle him up for you, my Lady?” he asked, shyly.

“Later, maybe,” she replied, with a small sigh. “Business first, I’m afraid.”

“For those of you who may not have had the chance to see me before, I am Phillip Marissime, your future Emperor. Commander Rabenaldt has already explained the new Flight to you: my own personal Flight. You will remain a small group, your first loyalty will be to me and any failure will be immediately punished by death.” Phillip saw some of the men exchanging sideways glances in trepidation. “Any man here who does not feel he can give total commitment to the Empire and to me should leave now, with no stain of dishonor on him.” Several of the men still looked wary, but none moved to leave. Phillip nodded in satisfaction. “Good. I expect to be proud of each one of you. You do, however, need to understand what this force is about, and you need to meet your commanding officer. I have chosen to resurrect an old title, one that fell out of favor many years ago.” Hands clasped behind his back, Phillip strode along the ranks of soldiers as he spoke. Dressed in elegant but business-like black and silver, with his height and carriage, Phillip looked every inch the young Emperor; and his dark eyes locked with each man in front of him as he passed by them.

“You need to understand … I am not re-creating this as a purely ceremonial unit, although that is what people will think and I have no intention of disillusioning them. People will also assume that your commander has been chosen purely as a figurehead, a ceremonial title only.” Phillip stopped pacing, facing the assembly and meeting their gazes squarely. “Let me assure you all very strongly that your commander is far from ceremonial. I have every confidence in my appointment and I recommend that you not make the mistake of underestimating them.”

Jenevra stepped out from the shadowed portico that ran along the side of the courtyard.

Phillip announced, “Gentlemen, meet the new Imperial Protector, Her Imperial Highness, Jenevra Couressime.”

A stunned silence fell. A couple of the men who had served with Raik’s Border Patrol grinned broadly; they remembered the younger Jenevra whose childhood exploits had become something of a legend in that unit. Mostly, though the men looked either disgusted, or puzzled.

“I can see how thrilled most of you are that you have a woman in charge,” Jenevra said, clearly.

“Girl,” someone muttered from the ranks.

With an almost uncanny speed and silence Jenevra placed herself directly in front of the man who had spoken, tipping her head back to lock eyes with the soldier–a bulky man more than a head taller than the princess. “Did you speak?”

Deciding to brazen it out; the soldier made the wrong choice. “I said you’re a girl, not a woman … Your Highness.”

“I see,” Jenevra’s tone, and smile, were deceptively gentle. Her hand shot out faster than he could defend against; three fingers jamming straight into the soldier’s throat, cutting off his air. She stood demurely in front of him for the longest minute of his life as he writhed on the floor like a fish out of water, gasping for air. “A girl who can kill you with one hand though.” Leaning down, she grasped his throat, pushing cartilage back into place and opening his airway again. As he gulped oxygen back into his system, Jenevra walked back to the front of the group. “Any other objections?” When none were forthcoming she continued as if the interruption had never happened. “I realize that many of you cannot see how I can lead a unit like this one. I intend to convince you.” She noticed skeptical glances flying around. Handing her cloak to Commander Rabenaldt, she ignored the stir as some of the men murmured in shock at seeing a woman dressed in men’s clothing. The twin swords she carried were visible on her back, hilts protruding slightly above her gray-clad shoulders. “Fine, let’s deal with this now then,” she said. “I’ll take you all on if I have to, but I will prove to you right here and right now that I am fit to lead this group.” She moved into the center of the courtyard. “Come on then, any of you who feel that you can beat me in hand to hand combat, let’s do it.”

One of the men found his voice. “What? You mean fight you? Here? Now?”

“That’s right soldier … scared?”

“Scared I’ll hurt you, my Lady,” the soldier looked worried.

Jenevra gave him an encouraging smile. “No need to worry about that. You won’t touch me. If you do manage to get a hit in, which you won’t, you won’t be held responsible … not today, anyway.”

Phillip leaned close to Raik. “Are you sure she knows what she’s doing? Some of these fellows look pretty rough. She could get hurt. Should we stop it?”

“Can’t,” Raik said bluntly. “She’d never get their respect if we stepped in. Anyway,” he grinned, “Just watch her. Don’t worry.”

“Oh come on!” Jenevra taunted the soldiers who were hanging back. “Look, you can come in six at a time. I really can’t be fairer than that. Come on! What’re you waiting for, a written invitation?”

The soldier whose throat she’d closed decided to go for revenge and lunged towards her. When he looked up again from the floor, he saw her grinning down at him. Unable to believe a girl had put him on the floor twice, he jumped back up and tried again. And again. Wherever he went to attack, she simply wasn’t there anymore. A foot under his legs and he was flat on his back again, the princess standing calmly in the center of the yard with scarcely a hair out of place.

As some of the other skeptics saw that he wasn’t touching the princess, they became suddenly—and strangely—brave enough to try and four tried to join the attack. Like their friend they were mystified when the princess wasn’t in their path any more, but was always just out of reach. She hardly seemed to move, but she was never where they thought she was. With a minimum of hand and foot motions Jenevra had all five of them on the floor at the same time. “Anyone else?” she asked the remaining soldiers, who—to a man—declined the offer.

“Well, so much for hand to hand combat. Who’s any good with a sword?” Jenevra held out a standard issue broadsword negligently in one hand.

The young man didn’t so much step forward as everyone else stepped back.

“Your name, soldier?” Jenevra asked the worried looking youth, passing the broadsword to him.

“Simon. Simon Varsun, my Lady.” He was tall and slim built, with a long reach which had helped him rise to the top of the sword specialists in the Border Patrol.

“Are you good with a sword then, Simon?”

“He’s the best we’ve got, Your Highness,” one of the men supplied.

“Pretty good then,” Jenevra agreed. “Well then, Simon, let’s see how quickly you can learn.” Reaching back over her shoulders she drew the two slim bladed swords that she carried. Simon looked puzzled, but he hefted the broadsword in front of him, following the princess as she moved around him. As he hesitated, Jenevra began talking to him. “Come on now, Simon … I’m not going to attack you … you’ll have to make the first move. You know you have to. You can’t hold that sword up in front of you forever. It’s heavy. You’re going to have to move it soon.”

Still following her as she danced lightly round him, Simon could feel the tension building in his shoulders. She was right, he would have to swing soon, or lose some of the strength that gave momentum to the huge sword. Lunging forward he brought the sword down on where her head had just been, only belatedly feeling the sting of her hit across the back of his thigh. “It’s just a scratch, Simon” she called to reassure him. “It’ll sting, but it’s not deep enough to give you a problem.”

Putting his brain into a new gear, Simon put together a series of moves that had gone a long way to making him the champion swordsman of the Border Patrol. Frustratingly, not one of them made contact with the princess’s swords, although she managed to trace a series of slashes across the back of his shirt.

Waving him to a halt, Jenevra lowered her swords. “Enough, Simon? We can keep going if you want to, I just don’t see the point. Maybe we can try again when I’ve shown you how to use swords like mine.”

Simon’s head came up, an excited light in his eyes. “Really? You’ll show me how to fight with those?” He nodded towards the pair of swords in her hands.

Jenevra nodded. “I’ll show you all. I can use a broadsword as well as the rest of you,” she said, “But I prefer these. They are faster, lighter and much easier to disable your opponent with. Any of those light slashes I gave you could have been a couple of inches deeper; they’d have taken out a tendon, or muscle, effectively crippling you against me. You will all train to use both techniques: the same with the hand to hand fighting. I will train this squad to become the most efficient fighting unit in the Imperial army. I want the best men the army has; and they have sent me you. But you can only become that good if you accept right now that I can do this. If you aren’t willing to listen to me and to learn what I can teach you, then you may as well leave now.” Her voice rang and her eyes blazed with conviction. She met the gaze of each man standing in the courtyard.

Phillip stood forward, next to his cousin. “Well, gentlemen, do I have a new Flight to add to my army? Will you follow Princess Jenevra as the new Imperial Protector?”

Twenty two voices shouted their agreement, and the Shadow Flight was born.

Later that afternoon, when the members of the newly formed Shadow Flight had been settled into their new barracks within the Imperial compound, and had gone back to the courtyard under Brogan’s experienced eye to work on basic drills, Jenevra stood watching them with Raik. Her eyes took in each of the men as she questioned Raik about who they were and what they knew about them. She assessed each one’s speed, flexibility and willingness to take orders from one of their own. Periodically, Brogan would march smartly over to her and ask for her opinion or for new directions. “Thanks for putting Brogan in there,” she murmured squinting at the man whose throat she had closed earlier. “He’s going to be trouble,” she nodded her head towards him. “Theiss, you said his name was?”

“Will Theiss, from Trevannta: comes to you direct from your favorite Flight leader, Captain Pichot.” The Commander’s mouth tightened. “I think you’re right about him being trouble though. Are you sure you want to keep him? You really don’t need such a hostile character in a Flight like this one.”

“He stays. I need every one of them.” Her tone was tense. “Letting him go would be admitting to the others that I can’t handle him. I can.” The finality of the statement left Raik in no doubt that Will Theiss was in for a very interesting education.

As the afternoon wore on, Jenevra left Raik and went out to begin working with her new command. Much to their collective disgust, she informed them that they would be doing more than just sword and unarmed combat drills; they would also be running and climbing every day. Of course, it had to be Will Theiss who argued out loud. “We’ve never done this sort of training before.” Folding his hugely muscled arms defiantly, he looked around at the rest of the Flight for support. “Captain Pichot never had us running or climbing.”

“You are supposed to be an elite force. Do you know what that means? It means you actually have to be better than all the other Flights.” Jenevra stalked across to Theiss, raising her hand towards him. Theiss took a step backwards. “You have to be stronger, faster, better trained with all weapons, and much, much fitter! When we go into action we will need to be fast and accurate; preferably silent too. We need to work together with total confidence in each other. If one person fails, the whole unit could die. That’s why we will be training every minute we have daylight.” With a sweet smile, she finished, “And that’s why you will be leading us on our first run tomorrow morning at daybreak.”

Muffled groans sounded from a few of the other men. Jenevra snapped around. “That will do, gentlemen!” The tone was harsh, and got their attention. “I won’t expect you to do anything I’m not willing to do. I will be waiting for you at daybreak. You’d better all be able to keep up. Do I make myself clear?” Eyes flashing, she turned to Brogan. “You may dismiss the men, Sergeant.”

As she strode from the courtyard, Jenevra still managed to notice that Will Theiss was last to be in place. Heartened by the fact that she saw Brogan’s eyes also narrow as he noted the same thing; the princess left the Flight in her sergeant’s capable hands.

Reassured that Jenevra’s training session was under Raik’s watchful eyes, Phillip had his next meeting with his future council. Climbing the wide stairway that led to the Council Chamber, he pondered how best to break the news to his council of advisors; particularly his Chancellor who had taken a dim view of the young Princess for many years now.

Chancellor Menzetti was at an age where retirement would be an option. He had served the Marissime family faithfully through two reigns, having been Phillip’s father’s Chancellor before his death and then again through Arrilia Neilla’s tenure. Phillip had considered replacing him as Chancellor, but the truth was that he was simply the best choice for the post. Sharp-witted and acid-tongued, he had led Embassies to almost all of the other Kingdoms at some time or another. Menzetti valued diplomacy highly, which was probably his main conflict with Princess Jenevra to whom diplomacy had always been a last resort. She had been an avid student of the act first, think later school; the absolute antithesis to Menzetti’s world.

Phillip knew that this appointment of Jenevra as Imperial Protector was likely to give the old man apoplexy, but he was convincing himself of the usefulness of the idea more each passing hour. Turning into the Imperial Council chamber and greeting his mother with a dutiful kiss, Phillip took his place at the head of the table. “Commander Rabenaldt sends his regrets. Shall we begin?”

Chancellor Menzetti rose to his feet, long elegant fingers, poet’s hands, stroking his short, white, immaculately groomed goatee. With a minimum of fuss and without referring once to his notes on the table, the Chancellor ran through the main points of interest, mostly regarding arrangements for the rapidly approaching wedding and coronation. As necessary he called upon other council members to present their information, and the meeting moved forward efficiently. Almost two hours later, coming to the end of the items for immediate attention Menzetti bowed and sat down.

“Thank you for your usual efficiency, gentlemen,” Phillip said.

“I have it on good authority that the Lady Christiana and her brothers are only a day or so away, Your Highness.” Menzetti sounded almost droll. “We thought we had better make the most of your attention while we could get it.” A gentle chuckle sounded round the chamber. Menzetti stood and began to gather his papers together; his secretary standing behind him ready to take them back to the Chancellor’s office where notes and changes would be dealt with immediately. “With your permission, Highness?” he glanced at his future Emperor who was making no sign of moving.

Phillip leaned forward, his arms on the table in front of him, his fingers locked together. “If you could give me just a few minutes more, Chancellor… ”

Chancellor Menzetti and the other council members, including the Lord Admiral, Rafael Massili, sat down. The Prince hadn’t yet brought many issues of his own to the Council.

Admiral Massili stole a surreptitious glance at Arrilia Neilla who was sitting quietly at the opposite end of the table to her son. He could tell nothing from her face and settled back into his chair to hear what Phillip had to say.

“Mother, Chancellor, gentlemen … I want you to think very carefully about what I am going to propose today.” Phillip was churning inside, but looked strong and purposeful as he faced his counselors. “You have probably heard by now that my cousin, Her Imperial Highness Jenevra Couressime has returned to court.” Rueful grins and a couple of quickly suppressed groans informed him that most of them had, indeed, heard the glad tidings. “In the past, we may have noticed a slight tendency for—how can I say this—let’s call them ‘incidents’ to abound in the vicinity of my cousin.”

“Or you could just say she’s trouble,” Rafael Massili added cheerfully.

“Rafael!” Arrilia Neilla slapped his arm. “How could you?”

Clearing his throat tactfully, Chancellor Menzetti said, “Highness, I think it safe to say that we have all noticed a certain tranquility about the palace over the last few years, which we may, possibly, ascribe to the princess’s prolonged absence from court.”

Acknowledging the truth with a slight grin Phillip continued, “I’ve given serious thought to the question of how to integrate her back into the court, without causing too many headaches for all of us, and the best I can come up with is to actually give her something to do. If we keep her busy, she won’t have time to … disturb your tranquility.”

Rumbles of approval came from the counselors. Arrilia Neilla and Chancellor Menzetti were conspicuously silent.

“Where has she been anyway?” The Lord Chamberlain, a fussy middle aged man with a penchant for vast floral displays throughout the palace, demanded. “Since when does a member of the Imperial family disappear for five years without giving an accounting to the Council?”

“I know where she’s been, my Lord Chamberlain.” Phillip announced. “My cousin and I have discussed her journey, and I’m satisfied that we have a rather changed Princess returning to us. If she chooses to discuss her time away with you that is her decision, but I forbid anyone to question her about it if she doesn’t wish to, is that clear?”

Arrilia Neilla and the Chancellor had exchanged glances during Phillip’s last speech. Forewarned by the knowledge that Jenevra had already managed to speak to Phillip alone, they knew something was coming. “Have you discussed your proposal with your cousin yet, Your Highness?” Menzetti knew the answer before he heard it.

“Of course, Chancellor. I have also discussed it with Commander Rabenaldt, who has given his approval to the plan.” He stared into his mother’s eyes, willing her to understand that if Raik agreed, it must be a good idea.

Coldly, Arrilia Neilla asked, “And what exactly is this marvelous plan that you seem to have put into place without anyone’s agreement?”

“I will be appointing Jenevra as Imperial Protector.”

Silence echoed deafeningly in the chamber.

Then pandemonium broke out; everyone talking shouting, arguing at once.

Phillip sat down in his chair at the head of the table and waited for quiet.

Chancellor Menzetti also sat silently, hands quietly folded in his lap; applauding Phillip’s maturity that he didn’t try to shout over his council. He was also mentally assessing the plan for Jenevra becoming Imperial Protector. Noticing Phillip’s eyes narrow at the continuing clamor in the room, Menzetti rose to his feet. “I think it’s a wonderful idea, Your Highness,” he announced loudly.

Phillip managed to keep his incredulity under control, earning himself a few more points in the Chancellor’s eyes. “Thank you, Chancellor. I appreciate your support.”

The rest of the council had now managed to control themselves and were sitting in their places in various stages of shock.

“Yes, it’s exactly what we need, Highness,” Menzetti repeated. “Bringing back a position that was removed because of its propensity towards treason, and giving it to the most headstrong member of the Imperial family. Brilliant if I may say so.”

Rubbing his hand over his face, Rafael Massili scratched at his beard. “Have I missed something here?” he asked, baffled by Menzetti’s agreement. “Isn’t this a recipe for disaster?” Heads nodded agreement around the table.

Chancellor Menzetti waved the objections away. “No, no, no. It’s amazingly clever. Clever enough to make me wish I’d thought of it years ago.” An expression that was as close to a smile as he ever got crossed his face. “Correct me if I’m wrong at any point, Highness, but I believe your thinking is running something like this. Firstly, no-one will believe that this will be anything other than a ceremonial position, so no-one will feel threatened by it. Secondly, you can create a bodyguard unit that serves two purposes. One, to actually protect you and two, to keep her Highness occupied. Thirdly,” he checked them off on his fingers. “You keep Her Highness closely by your side so that she can’t be anywhere else—disturbing our tranquility—until she’s married. Brilliant!”

Phillip was a little dazed at how well, and how quickly, Menzetti had seen the plan, but rallied quickly. “Exactly, Menzetti. So, mother, gentlemen, can we confirm this appointment? I realize it’s a little more rushed than we usually like to do things, but she is already here, and she really does seem ready to take on some responsibility.” Ignoring the rude snort from Rafael Massili, Phillip asked for a vote.

At Chancellor Menzetti’s discreet nod it was almost a unanimous decision. Admiral Massili staunchly refused to sanction the appointment based on his opinion that, “She’s trouble. I love her to death, but she’s always been the same … trouble.”

“Well, that’s that. I’ll make the official announcement myself sometime soon. We keep the information private until then. Thank you for your time gentlemen.” Phillip offered his mother his arm and they left the chamber together. “Nothing to say, mother?” He gave her a sideways grin she remembered from his childhood. “That’s very unlike you.”

She smiled sweetly at him, slapping the side of his face gently. “I have plenty to say to you my dear boy. I also have plenty to say to your cousin and to Commander Rabenaldt, but I think I’ll wait until I can get you all together … privately.”

Phillip winced.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next official dinner was even more strained for Jenevra than that of two nights before. To begin with it was a more formal affair. With numerous visiting dignitaries already arrived for the forthcoming ceremonials, the Lord Chamberlain was in full flight, although still only in the smaller section of the formal audience hall. Two long tables had been set running towards the entrance, with a cross table for the Imperial family at the far end. Pristine white linens flowed over the tables, interlaced with evergreen garlands and large crystal bowls of early spring flowers in shades of yellow and white, fresh from the glasshouses of the Palace gardens. Huge glass candelabra threw light across the tables, their light refracting through the crystal flower bowls, and echoed around the room by towering golden stands holding a dozen tall pillar candles each. Due to the heat provided by so many candles the Lord Chamberlain had simply filled the vast fireplace with an immense floral arrangement.

All dinner guests were supposed to arrive before the Imperial party, so Jenevra knew that at least she’d be spared the tedium of listening to all the arrivals being announced. Waiting in the antechamber until all the Imperial family was gathered, and outfitted once more by Serena Massili’s unerring taste, Jenevra fidgeted; pulling and scratching at the formal crimson brocade gown she’d been laced into. Unlike the green velvet gown, this one was the style worn by most of the other ladies of the court, and was far more restricting than anything Jenevra had ever worn before. She loathed the constriction of it, and the material was just plain itchy. Barely distracted by the flickering pains of a headache starting, Jenevra knew this was going to be a long, uncomfortable night.

Raik arrived with Mikyle Manvi. Jenevra’s scowl deepened as she saw their broad grins emerge at the sight of the princess in her formal dress. Stomping over to them, she hissed. “It’s not funny. I can’t breathe in this thing.” She turned her back to Mikyle. “Just undo the bottom of those laces a bit … you know, loosen them off.”

Captain Manvi’s eyes widened in warning, as Serena swept across the room towards them. “Jenevra! What do you think you are doing? Is that any way for a Princess to behave?” She pulled and tweaked, adjusting Jenevra’s gown in miniscule motions that didn’t have any impact at all as far as Jenevra could tell. Over Serena’s shoulder, she could see Mikyle, Raik and Rafael trying not to laugh out loud. Luckily, Lennia Manvi arrived, distracting their attention; closely followed by Chancellor Menzetti, and the two other senior commanders of the Imperial army, Blaise Tessier and Reiff Pichot.

The Chancellor was accompanied by his wife; a rare occasion as she was frequently ill and tended to stay on their estates in the south for her health. A pale quiet woman, Graea Menzetti was devoted to her husband and, on the few occasions that Jenevra had seen them together, she had noticed a significant softening in the Chancellor’s usually icy demeanor.

Despite Jenevra’s impressions of him, Captain Blaise Tessier was, in the view of most of the ladies of the court, gorgeous—in a curiously dangerous way. He wasn’t the tallest, biggest, best looking of the men at court, but there was an indefinable quality about him that just suggested that an evening with him would be about the most fun a girl could have. At his most captivating he had a lazy, insinuating smile; the neatly trimmed moustache and beard that Jenevra had watched him prune into perfection; and long hair that was almost, but not quite, curly. In the formal deep blue uniform of the Imperial Guard tonight, his darkly tawny mane was smoothed tidily back in a black ribbon, giving his lightly stubbled jaw a clearer outline. Remembering his outburst in the forest, and placing that alongside every tale she had heard of his conquests, Jenevra alone remained unimpressed. With an icy expression, she watched as he greeted the other gentlemen with a bow, before turning on the charm for the ladies; Serena and Lennia blushing and giggling as if they were still teenagers.

As Tessier turned to greet the princess, Captain Pichot pushed himself forward. “Your Imperial Highness has returned to us, and the court is certainly brightened by it.” Pichot grabbed Jenevra’s hand, planting a sloppy kiss on it with over-large, rubbery lips. “Ravishing, Your Highness. You have grown into a truly beautiful woman, if I may make so bold.” A sycophantic smile oozed across his face.

“You may not!” Jenevra snatched her hand back, scrubbing it vigorously down the skirt of her gown.

Mikyle Manvi choked, turning away to hide his face: Raik and Rafael busily slapping him on the back, their faces also carefully averted, but shoulders shaking. They all knew of her deeply rooted dislike of Reiff Pichot; a dislike that had been instantaneous from the first time she had set eyes on him. Not even Raik’s approval of the man on a military basis had changed her mind. She knew only that she distrusted him from the very core of her being. Something about him just made her flesh crawl.

A sudden flurry of attendants heralded the arrival of the Empress and the Emperor-to-be, saving anyone else from having to deal with the situation.

Arrilia Neilla called on the Lord Chamberlain to begin seating them. “Captain Pichot, you will accompany Her Highness please.” The Captain looked smug, as he offered Jenevra his arm. Trumpets called out a fanfare and the Imperial party began entering the dining hall and taking their places at the table. A loud-voiced attendant announced each of them as they entered. The Imperial Captains entered first, followed by Rafael and Serena Massili, and Lennia Manvi accompanied by Commander Rabenaldt. Chancellor Menzetti and his wife moved slowly through the room, while the final group waited for them to take their places.

Arrilia Neilla turned to her niece as they waited. “Phillip told me about the Protectorship. We will discuss it tomorrow. Tonight please try to not insult any of our guests, and behave as if you are worthy of being given such a responsibility. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.” Jenevra knew when an argument was futile. As they were announced in the hall, she heard the buzz as people realized she was back. Pulling on all the training she had received in control and calmness, she laid her hand as lightly as she could on Captain Pichot’s and they set off through the room at a properly dignified pace. Gritting her teeth, she felt an increase in her headache as she approached her place between her cousin, the Emperor, and Captain Pichot.

Knowing she was just two chairs away from Arrilia Neilla, and well aware that her aunt would seize upon any excuse to deny her the Protectorship, Jenevra worked as hard as she could to behave appropriately. She kept up conversation with Captain Pichot which, although strained, was based around Pichot’s favorite topic…himself. He droned on throughout the meal, extolling his own brilliance. Captain Pichot had a peculiar custom of wearing his hair slicked back from his face using some obnoxious smelling oil he believed to have an overwhelming effect on women. He was right, but for totally wrong reasons; Jenevra’s eyes were watering. The princess had quickly discovered that all she had to do was nod vacantly, and ask Pichot another question, to keep him talking. Occasionally Phillip would lean across to ask him something and she could relax for a few minutes.

Throughout the whole interminable meal, the heat from the candles kept growing. The doors to the hall had been closed to keep any guests from sitting in a draft. It was still early spring and many of the guests felt the evening chill. Jenevra was used to living almost in the outdoors. The temple had not had windows, but had been shaded with light wooden shutters during the few extremes of weather that they received. With her headache fully developed now, not having fresh air around her was starting to make her feel trapped and ill. The tightly laced gown wasn’t helping. Towards the end of the meal, just before the dessert course was served, Arrilia Neilla and Phillip made short speeches of welcome to the newly arrived guests. Various toasts were offered and drunk in quick succession. Phillip then offered a final one for the evening. “You will have noticed that we have been graced with the company of Her Imperial Highness, Princess Jenevra Couressime, Duchess of Coursim this evening. My mother and I are delighted to welcome her back to court, where we look forward to her remaining as a more permanent ornament. Please raise your glasses to welcome back Princess Jenevra.”

“Princess Jenevra” echoed around the hall.

Jenevra, totally embarrassed and discomfited at this, nevertheless managed to stand up and bow her head graciously before sinking back down into her chair. Under pretence of turning to smile and thank her cousin, she muttered, “I hate you,” at Phillip.

“And I’m supposed to let you protect me with that attitude?” he grinned.

“How much longer?”

Phillip raised his eyebrows. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s the heat, and this ridiculous dress they’ve got me tied into.” She nodded her head at the greasy-haired Pichot to the side of her. “And he stinks too. I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

“Really?’ Phillip looked at her. Apart from being slightly pale, he thought she looked quite appealing this evening. The deep red of the dress suited her, and the lacing that she was objecting to made her look like the young woman she actually was. Two spots of pink on her cheekbones made her look slightly flushed and highlighted the vivid blue of her eyes reflected in the bright candlelight. “It won’t be too much longer. Several of the visiting Princes and Dukes will want informal discussions soon. We can probably open this all up and head out to the other rooms and the terraces.” Beckoning the Lord Chamberlain across, Phillip gave instructions for dessert to be brought speedily, and for chilled drinks to be available in the long gallery immediately afterwards.

The fresh air of the terraces definitely helped, as Captain Manvi hastened across the room to escort Jenevra, taking advantage of the chance to ask if she knew when the rest of her family would be arriving. Leaning against the cold marble balustrade gratefully, she gave him what little news she had, pleasantly surprised at his opening up to her a bit more warmly once they began to talk about her brothers and sister. Away from the main crush, the headache receded just slightly to a dull throb.

For the next two hours various nosy nobles from all parts of the Empire came to her, ostensibly to add their own personal welcome to the Emperor’s, but mainly to see if they could find out where the enigmatic princess had been for the last five years. Portly Dukes bustled up with their pimply sons, eyeing a chance to marry into the Imperial family. Simpering Ladies brought their bitchy daughters to see if they could become ladies in waiting to the newly returned princess. Hating the evening beyond anything she could have imagined, Jenevra still managed to greet each one courteously, picking up on snippets of information that these people managed to let slip in their eagerness to impress.

“Princess Jenevra?” Lennia Manvi interrupted Jenevra’s conversation with a minor Count. “Her Majesty is asking for you.” Scooping her arm around Jenevra’s back, Lennia steered her skillfully through the throngs still cluttering the hall and gallery, until they reached the small audience chamber Arrilia Neilla used for informal meetings. As Jenevra paused ready to go in, Lennia gave her a small push. “Go to bed, Jenevra.”

Jenevra blinked at her, surprised. “What?”

“Neilla sent me to tell you to go to bed, child. You look washed out.” She brushed flyaway strands of hair away from Jenevra’s face. “Neilla’s pleased with you Jenn. I think she was quite impressed with how you handled yourself tonight. Go on … get to bed. She’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Leaving so soon, Your Highness?” In the long hallway outside the room Captain Tessier turned from checking on one of the guards from his Flight who were on Palace duty that evening. “I’m not sure I can permit you to wander the Palace unaccompanied.” As she ignored him and continued walking, he paced along beside her, hands clasped behind his back, the heels of his highly polished boots clicking loudly on the marble floor. Commander Rabenaldt had also left the Captain in no doubt as to the behavior he expected from him anywhere near the princess; the words had been harsher than any he had heard since joining the Imperial Army as a callow Lieutenant. Jenevra thought she saw a sly gleam deepen in his amber eyes as he noticed her discomfort at his presence. “May I escort you, Princess?”

“That’s not necessary, Captain, thank you. I think I can manage to walk to my rooms all by myself.”

“I’m sure you can too, Your Highness. But Prince Phillip made my responsibilities quite clear—especially with regard to you, Your Highness.”

“I assure you, Captain, I am perfectly capable of getting myself to my rooms,” the princess snapped, her jaw clenching and her hands balling into tight fists. The shadows in the hallway couldn’t hide Tessier’s smug response to her agitation, and she resolved to disregard Commander Rabenaldt’s direct order and make certain she had a knife somewhere on her at formal occasions.

“Well, it’s against orders, but if you’re sure …?” Tessier bowed, raised her hand and brushed her fingertips lightly with his lips: a ghost of a grin shading his mouth as she snatched her hand away. Leaning against the wall, arms folded, he stood watching her leave.

Muttering under her breath, Jenevra kicked off her shoes and padded along the hallways back towards her room. The marble of the palace was delightfully cold under her bare feet and the temperature of the palace was significantly cooler where there were fewer candles. With only the occasional guard on duty or servant scurrying along, it seemed peaceful compared to the bustle of the evening. Rounding the corner nearest to her room, she was somewhat taken aback to see a guard outside it. Recognizing him as one of the soldiers from her new Flight, Jenevra looked at him, puzzled. “Corrigan?” she asked quietly. “Finn Corrigan? What are you doing here?”

“One of us will be here every night, Your Highness.” His response was soft; a man given to few words as she remembered.

Jenevra looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Completely unnecessary,” she murmured. “Brogan’s idea?”

His face creased in a smile, but he said nothing, standing attentively to the side of her door.

“Goodnight Finn Corrigan.” Jenevra smiled at her guardian and closed the door behind her.

With Anna’s assistance, Jenevra was out of the hated gown quickly. Throwing a loose robe around her, she settled down on the window seat again, leaning back against the large cushions Anna had thought to place there, breathing the clear night air through the open window.

Approaching Jenevra with a large goblet of spring water, Anna realized that the exhausted Princess was already asleep. Leaving her bathed in the moonlight, she placed a soft blanket over her and left.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jenevra woke long before the first faint fingers of dawn began to emerge over the tops of the Coural Mountains. She leaned on the window sill, murmuring a soft prayer to the morning spirits; watching the mountains until the rising sun began to tinge the snowcaps with pale shades of pink and gold. Breathing in that cool sweet, grass-smelling air that accompanies an early spring day, she moved quietly around the room, warming her muscles up, dressing in her usual gray tunic, trousers and soft boots. Her hair was pulled back into a tight braid starting high on her head; she didn’t want any hair in her face for this morning’s work. Snatching up her swords and a soft bag, she headed down her private stairway to the outside, with a brief detour through the kitchens for breakfast; a hunk of cheese and a handful of dried fruit. A couple more turns brought her through the blacksmith’s forge to the barrack’s doors.

Jenevra thumped on the doors, which were still closed; and hopped up to wait on a wide stone ledge opposite them. A few seconds later, Brogan appeared at the door, fully dressed and saluting sharply. “Ready, Your Highness. Shall I have the men assemble in the courtyard?”

“Absolutely, Brogan.” Jenevra popped the last bite of cheese into her mouth and sauntered out to the courtyard, closely followed by the sound of feet running to be in place before she was.

Surveying the men in front of her, Jenevra was starting to put names and faces together. Finn Corrigan was there, looking tired but alert; quiver full of arrows slung over his shoulder and a longbow in his hand. Simon, the young swordsman was there, bright blond hair shining in the early light. Brogan was marching up and down the ranks, making sure the men were up to his standards before he presented them to their commanding officer. “All present, Your Highness,” he reported, saluting again.

“Thank you Sergeant Brogan,” Jenevra replied. “First things first,” she addressed them all. “You need to drop the ‘highness’ thing. Captain will do just fine. I don’t want anyone slipping up and calling me anything other than Captain when we’re out on a mission, so you’d best get used to it now.” She walked along the ranks as she spoke. “We are going out for our first training session today. Even though it’s only spring, you will still get warm. For now all I want you to bring with you is your preferred weapon, whatever it is. No cloaks, no extra weapons; just bring the one you are best with, or most comfortable with. Carry it however works best for you, although I would suggest that you may need both hands free at some point. You should only need your tunic, trousers and boots—anything else will just weigh you down to start with. We’ll build up as you train more.” There was a general noise of shuffling and rearranging things as the men of the Shadow Flight found ways to carry weapons, and left cloaks and over tunics on the floor. Jenevra spotted a couple of men with mail shirts on. “I really would suggest that you don’t wear those today,” she said. “You’ll just make things more difficult for yourselves.” One of the men was Will Theiss.

“I’ll keep mine on … Captain,” he sneered. “Those of us from Captain Pichot’s Flight won’t be brought down by a little exercise in armor.”

“Your choice, Theiss,” Jenevra dismissed his comment. “Ready?” She spoke seriously to them. “I just want you to follow me today. If you start having any problems at all, you shout out. I really mean that. Some of you will be strong in weapons, but have never run like I’ll be asking you to do today. I don’t want you ill. I will push you as far as I think you can go, but if it’s causing you problems, I need to know. It’s not a question of bravery or manliness; it’s simply a question of fitness. Some of you will take a little longer to get there than others. Understand?” There was some nodding of heads, but most of them looked like they would cut off their leg before admitting they couldn’t keep up. Hoisting the bag she had brought with her over her back, over the swords she was carrying, Jenevra turned and led the Shadow Flight out of the courtyard, heading towards the foothills of the Coural range at a steady trot. “Theiss!” she called back over her shoulder. “I want you up here by me.”

Bulky though he was across the shoulders, Theiss obviously had a lot of power in his legs too and was running fairly easily despite the mail shirt. His sword was strapped across his back, pommel smacking him in the head with each pace, but he made no move to change it. Jenevra smiled inwardly. She had seen several men like Theiss on the Island, all convinced of their own physical superiority; all brought to their knees by the Order’s training methods. If she could get him to work with the Flight he could become a strong asset. The trick would be getting him to do that before he pushed against her to the point where she would have to discipline him harshly to assert her total authority over the Flight.

There was a low forest two miles from the Palace, and Jenevra jogged backwards as they entered it, watching for any signs of struggle from the Flight. So far they all seemed to be doing well, although there wasn’t much talking going on. Directing Theiss to carry on up the slope, she moved through the pack of runners, asking questions of several of them who were starting to look a bit red in the face. Some of the men were heavily muscled and were already not finding breath to spare for conversation. Jenevra pointed out the spot they were aiming for up the mountain, and told them to pull to the back of the pack and slow their pace down. “I’m pushing the rest of the unit on, but I don’t want to lose you from the Flight yet. Keep going, but slow down to a pace you can handle. We’ll wait for you at the clearing by that outcrop.” Thankfully, they slowed their pace a little, lumbering along behind the others. Jenevra picked up her own pace and flowed easily past the faster runners, taking position at the front of the group with Theiss again. “Regretting the shirt yet, Theiss?” she asked, noting the slight flush in his face.

“No … Captain,” he grated, breathing in shorter gasps now.

Jenevra smiled. “Right then, let’s pick up this pace a bit. A bunch of girls could run faster than this!” she shouted back along the pack. Switching into another gear, she powered on up the hillside which was becoming progressively steeper. As several more of the men started to lag behind she ran back down the slope, gave them the same instructions about the meeting point, then ran back to the head of the group again. Moving fluidly, she felt better than she had done since leaving the island. As the cool air streamed around her she sensed trained muscles responding to the task; she’d run like this every day at the temple, warming up for the day. This was always the best part of the day; the time when she felt the most free, and here at court she knew it would be almost the only freedom she would get. Exulting in it she bounded ahead of the pack, jumping lightly over fallen trees and boulders in her path, eyes bright with glee.

Well ahead of the group by the time she reached the clearing, Jenevra drank deeply from the spring that welled up there; the reason she’d chosen this spot as their first stopping point. The water was icy cold and clear tasting, much more to Jenevra’s taste than the wine that tended to be served at the palace, although she had persuaded them to have water available in her own rooms. She strolled around, assessing the next part of their task for the day. Frowning slightly she contemplated how out of condition the men really were. She had hoped they would be fitter than was turning out to be the case. Still, that was what training was for. As the first group emerged from the trees breathing heavily, Jenevra showed them where the water was located and instructed them all to drink. She watched them as they lay around, panting. Seven of them had made it this far. These would have to be her prime group for now. Almost to a man they were long and lean; logically the strongly built, heavier men were slower at running, and still making their way up the hillside. Jenevra waited for everyone to arrive and to drink before addressing the unit.

“Right, everyone seems to be here now. Anyone in pain?” She looked around, listening to several of the men who spoke out. “No, not pains in your legs. That’s just from using muscles you’re not used to. Anyone with pains in their chest—not just out of breath—severe pain, or difficulty breathing?” Moving around among the men, she listened to several of them whose breathing sounded more labored than the others. The only one she was truly concerned about was Brogan’s friend, Bernardo. He was a fine tracker, she knew, but his breathing didn’t sound good. Brogan was with him, worried.

“He’s a good man to have around, Your Highness,” Brogan defended him.

“Captain,” Jenevra corrected absently; noting Bernardo’s white lips and pinched nose. “Bernardo, I want you to rest here for now. If it doesn’t get any easier to breathe soon, I want to know about it.”

“But, my lady … Captain,” Bernardo looked stricken. “I can do it, really I can. I don’t want to lose my chance in this unit after only one trial.”

Jenevra shook her head. “I’ve no intention of losing you, either, Bernardo, but I cannot allow you to continue with this task. It could kill you.” She stood up and raised her voice so that the others could hear her too. “I’m not prepared to lose any of you yet. This run is actually fairly easy,” she smiled at the groans of disbelief. “If you stay in this unit, you will run further and faster … but not today. All training is about building up abilities. Most of you will get there, with training. Some of you won’t. There are other functions within an active Flight that won’t necessarily be based on your speed and stamina. Prove to me that you have a contribution to make to the Flight, and you earn yourself a place in it.”

Predictably, it was Will Theiss, now beet red in his mail shirt, who commented first. “Of course, Captain, we are all stronger, bigger and better built, so we have more to carry running up hills like this than you do. No wonder you could skip ahead.” Lack of breath halted his complaining.

“Of course.” Jenevra asked one of the men to stand up. A massively built man who could swing a broadsword like a toothpick, he went by just the one name, Wulfgar. Every last one of the men knew how strong Wulfgar was. Turning her back to him, Jenevra asked him to help her take the bag off her back that she’d carried up the mountain. As he did, the men could see the muscles in his arms flex. He looked at the princess, puzzled. Rotating her neck and shoulders to release the muscles, Jenevra motioned to Wulfgar to open the pack.

“Horseshoes?” Wulfgar still looked confused, although most of the others had already worked it out and were looking slightly impressed.

“Yes, horseshoes.” Jenevra directed a cool, assessing stare at Theiss. “I know I don’t carry as much weight as the rest of you, so I evened things up for myself. I told you, I don’t expect you to do something if I can’t.”

Theiss snorted in obvious contempt. “They were already here,” he said derisively. “You had them here waiting—” Too late, he became aware of the ominous silence and stillness that had come over the group as he started speaking. Suddenly wary, he turned around the group, appealing to them. “Come on, can’t you see it’s a trick? There’s no way she could have carried those and run faster than all of us.” His face reddened in panic and anger as he realized he was out on a limb all by himself. Some of the other men may have been thinking the same thing, but they weren’t stupid enough to say it out loud. The young princess had made quite an impression on them already, and most were inclined to believe her.

Eyes narrow, Jenevra strode across the clearing towards Theiss. Before she reached him however, Brogan and Wulfgar stood between them. “Excuse me, Captain,” Brogan said coldly. “I think it best if we deal with this among ourselves, with your permission?” Brogan’s features were hard, as he turned to Will Theiss. “Disrespect and insubordination will not be tolerated in this Flight, soldier.” He cracked Theiss solidly across the face with his fist. “You will apologize to the Captain before your punishment is decided.”

Wulfgar stood behind Brogan, flexing his massive shoulders and arms, and cracking his knuckles in anticipation. Silently, the rest of the Flight moved to stand behind them, facing Theiss.

Realizing he was not going to win, Theiss grated an apology with poor grace.

The men of Shadow Flight turned to their commander, waiting to see Jenevra’s response to Theiss. Typically, it was not what they expected. Jenevra waved a hand at the pile of horseshoes lying on the ground. “I will decide punishment in this Flight, gentlemen. Pick them up, Theiss.” Her eyes were locked on the brooding man in front of her. “Divide them between each arm. Hang them over your lower arms, and put them out to the sides.” She nodded as Theiss followed her order. “Now, let’s see just how strong you are. Stay like that until I tell you otherwise.” The men around the clearing looked puzzled, except for one; a lively man with a sense of extroversion approaching that of Rafael Massili. Sitting on a large boulder, leaning forward with one arm resting on his leg, Gervaise D’Agostino smiled tightly in appreciation of Theiss’s discomfort. He hated Theiss with a passion. They had grown up in the same town, fighting over just about everything they ever did, and now, here was Theiss again, causing problems, being his usual obnoxious self.

“That’s what you get for arguing with the chief, Theiss!” D’Agostino called cheerfully; merry brown eyes lighting his face. Strolling across the clearing, he stood near Theiss, reaching out and pinching his bicep. “Keep those arms up now, Will!”

“And keep your hands away from him, D’Agostino. He’s not proving anything to you, but he is going to prove to me that he’s worthy of staying in this Flight.” Jenevra’s tone discouraged further levity, although D’Agostino remained smiling as he moved slightly away. “I’m giving you this one last chance to prove yourself, Theiss,” Jenevra continued. “Because I actually think you have some skills that I can use in this Flight.” She stood facing Theiss, locking her clear gaze with his. “But be warned; this is your very last chance. Next time you question, or disobey an order, or I hear any muttered criticism of my orders, I will take your head off your shoulders myself.”

There wasn’t a man in that clearing who didn’t believe that she meant every word.

“Brogan, you can drill everyone else in basic broadsword moves while I take a small group further on for today. Make sure every man here knows how Simon became champion. Simon, you help Brogan with this.” Facing one surly, insubordinate soldier, Jenevra was heartened by how easily the rest of the men obeyed her order.

Calling the first seven who had arrived at the clearing to one side, Jenevra cast an eye over the rest of the men as they began working with Brogan. She noted where footwork was an issue, and was pleased when Simon and Brogan corrected it. Weaving that much metal through the air required a solid footing to keep balance, a factor all too many missed until it let them down. By then it would be too late to change it. Most of them were reasonably solid swordsmen having been in the Imperial forces for some time. A couple of the men were new, with only basic training from fathers or friends in their towns or villages. Simon, the young man Jenevra had set to help Brogan, was particularly effective at teaching the new recruits, she noticed. Natural shyness was overcome by knowledge that he really was one of the best at this, so he taught confidently, but gently. The younger men were already improving as Simon passed on his techniques.

Glancing at Theiss, Jenevra noticed that he was starting to lower his arms slightly. “Keep those arms level with your shoulders, Theiss. Don’t you let them drop!”

Theiss merely gritted his teeth and tightened the muscles in his arms and shoulders.

Gervaise D’Agostino was commenting loudly on everyone’s techniques as he waited to go with the other six fastest runners. It was no surprise to Jenevra to learn that he was from Rafael Massili’s navy; emulation of the flamboyant seafarer was evident in D’Agostino’s every gesture. Just imagine a whole ship full of them, she thought; two hundred Rafaels … gods, what a horrific notion! Memories of some of Admiral Massili’s more grandiose moments flooded her mind, transporting her momentarily away from the clearing.

She remembered her cousin’s eighteenth birthday, when the Admiral had set his own flagship at their disposal for the party. Hosting on his own ship, Rafael Massili had been in his element; loud, boisterous and extravagantly entertaining. Resplendent in full uniform, his medals had gleamed and clanged against an ornamental breastplate, ensuring that he had to talk even louder than usual to be heard over his awards. Bushy hair and beard had been at full bloom. Although a tall man, the Admiral was also quite portly, making him a very imposing figure. Hanging from the highest mast later on in the evening; singing celebratory songs while consuming large quantities of beer, Rafael had made various suggestions to the ladies of the court, all of which caused Phillip, Stephan Richard and Mikyle Manvi to gaze open-mouthed and wide-eyed in admiration. Arrilia Neilla and Lennia had promptly disappeared, dragging Christiana and Jenevra with them; leaving Serena Massili staring at her brother in disbelieving embarrassment. Jenevra smiled before leaving the memories to focus on the group in front of her.

As she turned her mind back to the seven strongest runners, Jenevra gestured at the mountain face in front of them, which was almost vertical for at least a hundred feet. Although a couple of the men looked keen, it was obvious that not all seven looked thrilled at the prospect. On the other hand, the rest of the Flight was breathing a sigh of relief, grateful that their lack of running ability had left them out of this “treat”. With an amused glance, Jenevra was quick to disillusion them. “Don’t think you won’t be doing this soon,” she said cheerfully. “Anyone not able to complete this run and then this climb at the end of two months won’t be staying with the Flight, unless I can find a damn good reason to excuse them.”

Theiss’s shoulders were rigid with tension now, but he was still holding up well.

“It’s really not as difficult a climb as it looks” Jenevra continued. “It looks high, but there are plenty of foot and hand holds on the way up. It’s just straight up, nothing tricky to deal with.” Wriggling her fingers, she noted, “Most of you have strong shoulders and hands from wrestling, sword and knife work; but climbing often uses the very tips of your fingers. It’s just a case of practicing and adjusting your training.”

Theiss was beginning to sweat, cords of muscle starting to show tension in his neck.

“Oh, come on, Theiss, just call it!” Gervaise D’Agostino was impatient to get going. “You know you can’t hold them much longer.” Theiss glared at him, teeth clenched too tightly for any answer.

“Right,” Jenevra was looping a large coil of rope around herself. “I’m going first. Watch the foot and handholds that I use, although you may not be able to use exactly the same ones; but it will give you an idea.”

“Are we all going to be tied together, Captain?” Alexander, one of the youngest soldiers, asked.

“Not likely,” the princess answered cheerfully. “If one of you fell, the others would all go too. You’re just not ready to work that way yet. You’ll climb one at a time for today. I’ll let the rope down from the top. You tie it around you, and climb up; same for the next man, until we’re all at the top. Then I’ll show you some real fun!” Stretching her fingers again, she began to climb. Quickly, easily, she found hand and foot holds, ascending the sheer face at a rapid speed. Occasionally a piece of the rock would be loose and she would have to change grip quickly, but there were no significant problems; although the seven waiting members of the Flight turned pale each time a small shower of stones came down. They were astounded when they heard her calling that the rope was coming down for the first one. “That would be for you!” Gervaise D’Agostino offered the rope to Tarran Kerr, a man with a reputation for enjoying anything remotely dangerous, who backed away quickly, hands behind his back. “No, no, D’Agostino, after you.”

“Come on!” Jenevra shouted impatiently. “One of you just tie that rope around you and start climbing!”

They all stood looking at the dangling rope.

“D’Agostino! Get up here now!”

Squaring his shoulders, and spitting into his palms, D’Agostino put his arms through the rope loop, tightening it round his chest. “You might not want to be standing right there,” he noted to the other six. “Just in case I come down unexpectedly.”

They all took several paces back, except for a tall, curly-headed man, weather-beaten and wiry. Bryce Baudoin was among the oldest of the Flight, a quiet, reserved man, quite happy with his own company. He grinned at Gervaise. “See you at the top!” he called, and swung up the rock face like a man born to it. Long arms and legs snaked out across the mountain as he found grips that no-one else could have reached. He seemed to crawl up it like an insect.

“Are you climbing yet?” Jenevra called.

“Just starting.”

“Shout, ‘climbing’ when you’re moving, D’Agostino, and ‘hold’ if you need to stop. It lets me know what you’re doing while I’m on the other end of this rope.”

“You’re holding me … Captain?” D’Agostino swallowed heavily.

“Sort of. Come on!”

“Just filling me full of confidence here,” D’Agostino muttered, looking for his first hand holds. “Climbing!”

A few minutes after D’Agostino had called, Jenevra heard someone reaching the top of the face. Bryce Baudoin’s curly head popped over the edge. “Thought I’d just pop on up to help, Captain,” he announced cheerily.

“Excellent, Baudoin. You’re a climber! Where?”

“I grew up in Salanova, Captain, so I spent most of my summers climbing the north Coural range. I think my favorites would have to be the Bortkans though. You really feel like you’re on top of the world there.” Squatting down next to Jenevra near the edge of the cliff, he peered over to see how D’Agostino was doing. “You’re a pretty impressive climber yourself, if you don’t mind me saying so … for a princess, that is.”

Jenevra laughed; delighted someone else shared her love of climbing.

“Hello-o … if you don’t mind up there? Dangling man in need of help.” Almost twenty minutes later Gervaise D’Agostino’s voice interrupted their favorite mountain discussion. Laughing, Jenevra and Bryce pulled Gervaise up onto the ledge.

Jenevra sent the rope back down. “Right … the rest of you … one at a time … let’s go!”

It was slow going but, a couple of hours later, with only a few slips, lots of aching muscles, bleeding fingers and one heart-stopping fall (saved by the rope) behind them, all seven were at the top of the rock face. They lay panting on the broad ledge. “You, Baudoin—what are you, part spider?” Tarran Kerr asked accusingly.

Bryce smiled and D’Agostino hooted with laughter. “That’s him … spider! Looks like you’ve got a new name, Baudoin!”

“And now, gentlemen,” Jenevra cut across them. “Going down!”

A couple more ropes were trailing down the rock face now, and using another piece of rope that she had carried up, she showed them how to fashion a harness to use around their waist and legs. To each man she also handed a pair of leather gloves. “You’ll need these, believe me,” she smiled.

Dangling D’Agostino over the edge while she held onto the rope she said, “So you just sort of sit back, use your legs to bounce down, letting go of the rope each time.”

“Let go of the rope?”

“Yes, you just have to let it slide through your hands. If you hold onto it you won’t go anywhere. As soon as you tighten your grip again you’ll stop. It’s easy.” She pulled D’Agostino back onto the top of the rock. “Look. I’ll go first again. You watch. I’ll come back up to let you all down again.”

Bryce Baudoin, Spider, lay flat out, head right over the edge of the rock, watching her all the way down. Although he’d climbed for most of his life, he had never seen anyone go down a mountain that way before. “That’s brilliant!” He said to the rest of the small group, wrapping a rope harness around himself. “Why has no-one ever shown me this before? It’s so simple … so fast.” He was still mumbling to himself as Jenevra reached the ledge again and signaled him to go.

“Whoo-hoo!” Bryce fairly flew down the mountain.

Brogan and the rest of the Flight had long since given up any pretence of sword work, and were watching in fascinated horror; well aware by now that the young princess was going to require all of them to do this.

Will Theiss was crouched on the floor, rubbing his arms and chest, but no-one noticed.

Far more quickly, and with fewer incidents than on the ascent, the climbers returned to the clearing at the bottom of the rock wall. Although they had all been nervous, they had managed to rappel down fairly easily, Bryce’s enthusiasm helping to replace the fear of the unknown with the exhilaration of flying down a mountain.

As the rest of the Flight clamored around them, Jenevra made the last descent, landing smoothly once again. She congratulated all seven on their climb, and ordered another water break. Calmly, she walked over to Theiss, picked up all of the fallen horseshoes and placed them back into the pack she had carried up there. “Time for the run home, gentlemen!” she announced sweetly, swinging the heavy pack up onto her shoulders again. Raising her eyebrows in mild reproof at the collective groan that went up, she was pleased to hear it stop almost instantly. “As Mister Theiss is so fond of pointing out, I’m “just” a girl. If I can run home, so can you. Let’s go!”

Quickly the men formed up into ranks and set off back down the mountain. Brogan had obviously reorganized the ranks during their time in the clearing, with the faster men at the front, slower ones at the back. Brogan set himself around the middle of the Flight, and had assigned two men to run with Bernardo at the very back. Catching his eye, Jenevra nodded in silent acknowledgement of his decisions. Raising her voice again she called instructions to the whole Flight. “When you reach the edge of the forest, you stop. Whenever anyone else sees us they will see an impeccable unit. We will regroup at the edge of the forest, and when we are all back in breath and able to look like we’ve just been out for a short stroll, then we will jog smartly back into the Palace. We have a reputation to build and maintain, gentlemen. A reputation of being the sharpest, toughest, fittest, best Flight in the Imperial War Host; and it starts here!”

Just before noon, the Shadow Flight emerged from the woods. Smartly following their Captain, heads high and shoulders back, twenty three sore, exhausted and proud men deceived everyone watching them as they made their way back to their barracks. Sergeant Brogan formed the Flight into parade order outside the barracks, from where they were dismissed to the bath-house and food. Salutes sharp enough to cut silk accompanied the dismissal.

From a window in the secondary Council Chamber high on the second floor of the Palace, Commander Raik Rabenaldt turned with a self-satisfied grin to his future Emperor and his current Empress. “I told you!”

CHAPTER NINE

Several weeks passed, with Jenevra and her Flight becoming a regular feature of palace life. The sight of the princess, dressed in tunic and pants, with swords crossed on her back, became a common event, although still detested by Serena Manvi. At Phillip’s insistence, Jenevra had made some efforts to learn how to behave at court. With Mikyle Manvi and several ladies-in-waiting, Phillip had committed an hour or so each day to teaching Jenevra how to dance—which she picked up quickly thanks to her training. Unfortunately, it soon became clear that the princess was not popular with the other young women at court. She made no effort to hide how useless she felt they all were, and their subsequent derision of her efforts to fit in to court life precluded any kind of friendships. Not to mention that Jenevra’s unusual status gave her opportunities to be frequently in the company of most of the Imperial officers—something many of the women were deeply jealous of. They had no way of knowing that the princess couldn’t have been any less interested in the men, viewing them only as colleagues. Serena gave her many lessons in etiquette, and all kinds of behaviors peculiar to court life, which served mainly to increase Jenevra’s sense of being different, and isolated. Evenings tended to find the princess excusing herself early, and disappearing to be alone. But there was no repetition of the meeting she had had with Arrilia Neilla on the day she arrived: no time for the two of them to spend together to work on reconciliation.

Following a hard morning’s work on her riding skills, Jenevra pulled on a deep cobalt velvet gown in the looser style she preferred. There had been no mistaking the excited buzz going around the Palace now that their future Empress had arrived. It was time for a Couressime family reunion.

With a deep breath before opening the door to her brother’s rooms, Jenevra hoped that Richard would be alone so that she could divide and conquer. She breezed into the room, faltering slightly as she registered there were two blond figures standing by the fire. Frustrated that the twins were together, Jenevra swore under her breath and walked across the room to greet them. For a long moment they just stood together.

Richard was the first to step back, pushing Jenevra gently away to take a better look at her. “You’ve grown.”

Christiana grasped Jenevra’s hand, pulling her towards the long seat near the fireplace. She studied her younger sister’s face intently, as if she hoped to find answers to questions there. “It’s good to see you,” she said simply. “It’s been really strange not having you around. Are you all right?”

Despite thinking that they’d never noticed whether she was around or not when she’d lived there, Jenevra gave her a heartfelt hug. “You’re the first person to actually ask me that. Everyone else just wants to know where I’ve been and what I’m doing back here.”

“Well, I’ve been on my own since you went away,” Christiana explained. “It’s just me against Rick, Stephan, Phil–and even Mikyle Manvi’s been acting up too. Only because they knew you weren’t here!”

Jenevra laughed, holding onto the moment. It wasn’t often that she and her sister found themselves in agreement, and she wanted to put off the explosion she knew would come following her announcement. “So, are you ready to get married, Chris? I know Phil’s—”

“Oh, how is he?” Christiana’s voice was breathless. “They haven’t let me see him yet. Something about a council meeting.” Her hands gripped Jenevra’s arm tightly.

Richard and Jenevra grinned at each other, the family resemblance showing in the mischievous glinting blue eyes. “Poor Chrissie has been missing her little Philly terribly,” Richard chortled.

“Bloody adolescent!” Christiana tossed a hip length cloud of golden blonde hair around in indignation, jutting her chin towards her sister. “Well, how is he?”

“His Imperial Highness was in splendid form last time I saw him, your future Imperialness. Seems like a man in a hurry to get his forthcoming nuptials over with, anyway.” Richard and Jenevra laughed as their sister blushed deeply. “Don’t blush, Chris, it makes your hair look ginger!”

“I missed this!” Richard hugged his sister again.

“If you two have quite finished?” Christiana’s frosty tone didn’t quite come off. “I suppose we should find Stephan and let him know the prodigal prankster has returned to the fold.”

“Prodigal prankster? I like that.” Jenevra smiled. “Whose idea was that one? It’s quite clever–rules you out then, eh, Chris?”

Christiana shook her head. “To think I actually thought I’d missed you. Could we please get back to the point? How is Phillip? I mean really.” She sat back on the seat by the fire, smoothing her hair and arranging her skirts delicately around her. It never hurt to be ready for any unexpected visitors, and who knew when Phillip might get a chance to drop by. She wouldn’t be caught arguing with her brother and sister; she would have him find her looking like his future bride and Empress. Had Phillip arrived at that point, he would, as she knew, have been breathless with admiration. Tall and statuesque, she had a figure with curves that stopped the right side of tasteful. Topped with masses of pure golden hair, a flawless peaches and cream complexion, and the crystal blue eyes that each of the Couressime children possessed; their father’s eyes. Sitting, as she was, with the fire behind her, she knew the light was soft and flattering, warming her ivory damask gown with rosy hues.

A far slighter build than her sister, Jenevra flopped into a high-backed chair further away from the fire, legs stretched out in front of her, feet bare underneath the blue velvet gown. Seeing Christiana’s incredulous glance at her feet, Jenevra tucked them back underneath her skirt and rushed to fill the silence. “Phil’s fine, Chris. He’s taking a lot of extra responsibility on right now because he has to be ready when Aunt Neilla hands over to him; although, in all honesty, it’s as good as done now. She still has to ratify his decisions, and the Council gets to put their collective oars into it, but really and truly, he’s in charge. Of course, he’s changing things around a bit. New appointments … some slightly more … radical ideas. But he can handle it. He’s going to make a great Emperor.”

Tuned in by some twin intuition, both Richard and Christiana caught something in Jenevra’s tone. Richard looked suspiciously at her. “New ideas? Is there anything you think we should know about? Have you been up to anything stupid?”

Christiana looked exasperated. “Great Tore, Richard, she’s only been here a couple of days, Phillip’s never out of the council chamber and she’s surrounded by the Imperial army. She couldn’t draw an unsupervised breath, much less do anything—” Her eyes widened in total disbelief as she watched guilt rising in Jenevra’s face. “What … have … you … done?” she grated from between clenched teeth. “What idiotic, hare-brained scheme have you cooked up this time?”

Arms folded defensively, Jenevra chewed on her lip. “Nothing. Well, nothing much.”

“And what, exactly, is your definition of nothing much?” Richard’s eyes were rapidly darkening to a storm.

“Nothing you need worry about. Honestly … it’s just a traditional job for a member of the Imperial family. It’s a ceremonial role; a formality really.” Two pairs of skeptical eyes watched her as she edged towards the door. “It’s the traditional post for the youngest adult of the Imperial line. You’ve all been telling me for years that I should be more mindful of my responsibilities, so now I am.” She saw a growing light of comprehension dawning in their eyes and, realizing that her window of opportunity for a swift escape was rapidly closing, she added, “Anyhow, it means I’ll need to keep up on my rest, so I’ll be going … oh, about now, I think.” Snatching at the door handle, she tried for a quick exit, only to find herself nose to chest with an impressive amount of masculinity, which proceeded to enfold her in a heavily muscled bear hug. Dangling uselessly in her oldest brother’s greeting, Jenevra looked at Chris and Richard, then up at Stephan’s face. “Oh, hell!”

“Imperial Protector? What sort of nonsense is that?” Tact had never been big in Stephan’s repertoire. “How can you possibly think you could even be a figurehead for that kind of thing? Are you crazy? What’s Phillip thinking? Does he even know about this?” Stephan stamped around the room like a minor earthquake, his arms flailing in all directions.

“Will you shut up?” Richard shouted from his position sitting on top of Jenevra on the bench seat near the fireplace; just to make sure she didn’t miss this little reunion. He poked Jenevra in the back of the shoulder. “Does Phillip know about this?”

Twisting her head round to glare defiantly at them all, Jenevra spat back, “Oh fine! Now I’m allowed to speak am I? How many times have you all gone on about me not taking being an Imperial Princess seriously? The minute I take on a duty I am supposed to do, you’re all up in arms about it. And yes, Phillip does know about it. It was his idea.”

Three faces stared down at her in stunned disbelief.

“Oh! You are such a liar!” Christiana broke the deadlock. “I’ll bet he doesn’t even know. Anyway,” Christiana leaned down towards where Jenevra was still pinned under Richard. “He’ll just have to disagree to it when I get to speak to him.”

Twisting sharply and giving Richard an unexpected nerve pinch, Jenevra levered him from on top of her and jumped up, turning on Christiana. “You just don’t get it, do you?” She blazed. “What Phillip needs right now isn’t some shrew turning up, making demands—before you’re married. You might want to think about that. He’s still got time to back out! What he needs is a show of Imperial togetherness. The Empire needs to know that he’s not standing there on his own. The marriage will do a lot to help stabilize things, and then you two,” she nodded at Richard and Stephan. “You have lands and forces of your own that will be called into the Imperial ranks should they be needed. That will make idiots like Corros of Diruthia think twice before trying anything.” She drew a breath, trying not to give her brothers and sister a chance to start thinking. “To be honest, I think Phillip’s feeling fairly swamped at the moment, and he could use the moral support of all of us standing at his side, not arguing among ourselves.”

Recovered from his unceremonious landing on the floor, Richard took hold of Jenevra’s arm and swung her round to face him. “Very good, Jenn. Amazing how you think that if you go fast enough you can talk your way out of this. But we still haven’t dealt with the real issue.” The three of them stood in a row, making a tall, blond barrier between Jenevra and the door. “The position you’re talking about is Imperial Protector, yes?” Richard waved Christiana’s gasp of protest into silence. “You just said that Stephan and I will be the family’s military presence here, so logically one of us should be Imperial Protector. Let’s face it, you’re just a girl. How could you take the role?”

Christiana glanced indignantly at her twin, and Jenevra’s eyes glinted with smoldering anger again.

“No, Jenn, I’m serious,” Richard pressed. “Stephan and I are soldiers by profession. How could you even think you could do it?”

Jenevra shook her head in disbelief. “I really appreciate your vote of confidence.” She pushed through them towards the door once again, turning before she got to it. “I told you, this role is traditional. The youngest, the most expendable member of the Imperial family has always taken the position. You all have responsibilities and duties within the Empire that far outweigh anything I have. I am expendable. I have had more training than you know of, and I want to do it. Phillip thinks it can work and …” Jenevra paused, raising clear blue eyes at them. “It may surprise you to know that Commander Rabenaldt thinks it will work too. That’s good enough for me.”

“Jenn—” Christiana started forward, hand stretched toward her sister, but Jenevra was already gone, a soft, “Goodbye,” falling behind her as the door swung closed.

Deeply saddened that her own family would still not make any effort to understand her, even after she’d been away for so long, Jenevra returned to her rooms and, flopping down onto the soft bed, she let her mind drift away, floating on a cloud of feathers. She pictured the serene faces of her masters at the temple, as they sat in meditation, and felt her spirit reach out for that same tranquility. Unconsciously her hands met on the amulet she wore around her neck, infusing her with a deep sense of connection to the peace of the island. Jenevra felt the jarring rhythm of the palace intrude, sweeping away her short respite. Sighing, she closed her eyes for another brief moment, hating this place and wondering, not for the first time, what she was getting into.

CHAPTER TEN

Jenevra was just swinging up into the saddle, attempting to escape the palace before anyone thought to look for her, when the groom dashed across the courtyard with a summons from Arrilia Neilla. The Empress had finally found the time to deal with her niece. Not waiting to change, Jenevra headed towards the Empress’s suite of rooms, dreading the early morning interview. She knew that Arrilia Neilla was not happy about either the position of Protector or the way Phillip had independently chosen to reinstall it. Chewing distractedly on the side of her lip, Jenevra hesitated just momentarily as the doors to Arrilia Neilla’s private rooms were swung open for her. Jenevra’s sweeping gaze quickly established that there were only her Aunt and Lennia Manvi in the room; no sign of Phillip, Commander Rabenaldt, or even Chancellor Menzetti. She wasn’t entirely sure whether this was a good sign or not.

“Ah, Jenevra,” The Empress turned towards her niece. “Come in.” She waited for Jenevra to cross the room and bob an awkward curtsey to her. Rolling her eyes at Lennia, Arrilia Neilla motioned for Jenevra to take a seat by the window. Settling herself opposite Jenevra, she folded her hands in her lap and gazed at the young woman whose presence was always unsettling for her.

Jenevra was the image of Arrilia Neilla’s younger sister, Saphila. Slender and darkly bewitching, Saphila had broken the hearts of almost the entire Court before finally deciding to fall in love with Stephan Couressime, the Duke of Coural, a tall, blonde, rugged bear of a man. They had been deliriously happy together, their first son, Stephan, born the same year as Arrilia Neilla’s youngest one, Phillip.

Saphila had supported Arrilia Neilla through that terrible time when her two oldest sons were trapped during a siege, and died of a virulent disease in the same week. They had been terribly young; ten and eleven years old; full of all the promise of youth. The tragic loss of both the heir to the Empire and the next in line made Saphila painfully aware of how fragile life was, and she insisted that her children would never have to leave the court as Neilla’s sons had done, to live with another royal family for training in etiquette and duties. Stephan and Phillip, both just emerging from infancy, stayed near their mothers in the Imperial Palace. Arrilia Neilla couldn’t afford any more chances now that Phillip was the sole heir to the Marissime Empire.

Shortly after the twins’ fourth birthday, Saphila returned to the Couressime family estates in Coural for the birth of her fourth child, Jenevra. Stephan Couressime rushed from his duties with Raik Rabenaldt’s Border Patrol to be at her side; both utterly captivated by this small dark echo of her mother. Their first three had all been large blonde replicas of their father; bonny bouncing babies with golden hair and pink cheeks. Saphila Jenevra Couressime had skin like porcelain, a thick mop of dark hair and the clear blue eyes of all Couressimes.

Returning to Court some months later, they were surprised by a raiding party. Although the Duke of Coural was no mean warrior, he only had a small escort with him that day and the ambush soon overwhelmed them. Fighting for the lives of his beautiful wife and daughter, he was wounded many times. Any one of them would have been fatal, but he struggled on, knowing that he was their only hope. As the light died in his eyes, he saw his friend, Lieutenant Raik Rabenaldt leaping from his horse to defend Saphila and the child. Knowing that against all hope the Border Patrol had arrived, he sank into death believing he had gained them time to live. His eyes were blind to Raik holding Saphila’s dead body, an arrow sticking out of her chest, and an ugly gash across her throat. He never saw the tears in Raik’s eyes as he picked up the crying bundle that lay on the ground next to Saphila: didn’t witness the carnage as the Border Patrol unleashed its collective fury on the raiders.

The Border Patrol had almost adopted the little princess by the time they reached the safety of the Imperial Palace. She was somehow a reminder of all they fought to keep safe at home; and it was well that the Border Patrol cared for her, because the Imperial Palace was thrown into deepest mourning for the Duke and Duchess of Coural. Arrilia Neilla was bereft; her sister and brother-in-law following after her young sons. She had little time to notice the baby they had been bringing back to court with them. When she was aware of the child it was only as the cause of the fateful journey.

The Emperor, her husband, Reiff Marissime, held Jenevra, tears filling his own eyes as Stephan’s eyes gazed steadily at him from Saphila’s beautiful face. Try as he might, he could not convince Arrilia Neilla to hold her. Even Lennia Manvi couldn’t persuade her to it. So, the care of Jenevra Couressime was left to Lennia, Serena Massili and, as she grew older, the Border Patrol.

Not until after the death of her husband, the Emperor, did Arrilia Neilla show any interest in her sister’s daughter. As he lay dying, Reiff had held onto her hand and begged her to see the child; to hold her. “She is beautiful, Neilla,” he had whispered hoarsely. “Beautiful, like Saphila. She’s your niece, Neilla; your flesh and blood. Saphila’s daughter. She needs a mother. She needs you.”

And so, when she had buried her husband, along with her memories of her sons and her sister and brother-in-law, Arrilia Neilla had taken her first real look at Saphila Jenevra Couressime; the small child who seemed to link every death that had come close to destroying Arrilia Neilla’s life.

Blinking back tears, Arrilia Neilla shook her head slightly. The guilt was fresh every time she looked at Jenevra. She had sent her to the Order with something approaching relief that she wouldn’t have to see her dead sister’s face gazing at her every day. The young woman sitting in front of her today wasn’t so very different from that tiny girl she had taken in her arms all those years ago: the slender figure, like her mother; porcelain skin slightly warmed by the sun. Masses of rich dark hair, pulled back into a braid again, and those eyes … no-one ever forgot meeting a Couressime because of their eyes.

“Your Majesty?” Jenevra could see the Empress was far away.

Arrilia Neilla smiled at her niece, reaching forward to pat her gently on the hand. “I’m sorry, Jenevra. You look so much like your mother. I’m afraid I was just wallowing in some old memories there for a moment.”

“Oh, not again!” Jenevra blurted, closing her eyes and catching her lip between her teeth as she realized what she was doing.

Arrilia Neilla was pierced again by how much she had failed with this child. Her mother, Saphila, had never looked doubtful for one day of her life. She had grown up universally adored and sure of her welcome everywhere. Jenevra was much more guarded, something Arrilia Neilla had never seen until now. Never quite sure she was wanted; always knowing that her birth had led, however indirectly, to her parents’ deaths. Then sent away to some remote island to people none of her family knew; forced into making a family of the strangers she found there. Again, Arrilia Neilla was overcome with sadness for this living image of her long-dead sister, but still could not find a way to reach out to her.

Arrilia Neilla took a deep breath and focused on her niece once more. “Why does that look like what you were wearing when you arrived back at court?” She waved Lennia over to join them. “Lennia, doesn’t that look like—”

“It is the same thing, Your Majesty,” Jenevra interrupted. “Lady Massili did make me wear other things, but I was just going to go riding, so I thought I’d put these on. They’re comfortable.”

“Comfortable!” Arrilia Neilla and Lennia chorused, choking. “You don’t wear clothes to be comfortable, my dear,” the Empress continued. “You wear them so people know who you are.”

“Well, I know who I am, and I didn’t think the horse would care too much.”

“Jenevra!” Arrilia Neilla’s smile belied her irritated tone. “I would have thought that you would be giving more thought to your image now that you’re going to be Imperial Protector.”

Jenevra’s eyes widened, one eyebrow shooting upwards in query.

“Well?” The Empress asked. “What are you going to wear?”

“For what?”

“For your role as Imperial Protector, of course.” Arrilia Neilla’s shoulders drooped in mock dismay. “Don’t tell me. You thought you’d just wear those things?” She waved at the tired gray outfit Jenevra was wearing.

Jenevra looked down at herself. “Well, honestly … yes. Why not? I want to be inconspicuous—you know, like a shadow. That’s what we’re called; the Shadow Flight. I thought the whole gray thing worked rather well.”

“My dear child, you simply cannot expect to be taken seriously if you don’t look the part. If you are going to be Imperial Protector, and stand next to Phillip for formal occasions—”

“What?”

“Then it’s important that people know who you are. You need to be conspicuous. They have to know what you’re there for. You have to look … well, Imperial.”

“… and protective,” added Lennia, enjoying the surprise on Jenevra’s face. “Like a warrior.”

“Exactly,” agreed Arrilia Neilla. “Protective. So some sort of formal outfit seems to be called for. Maybe something with metal … you know, suggesting armor.”

Arrilia Neilla moved towards the door. “Come along, Jenevra. We have outfits to plan, and I won’t have time for this tomorrow. We have to set this in motion today, or you won’t be ready to be presented.”

“Presented? What?” As Arrilia Neilla swept out of the room, Lennia chivvied Jenevra along behind her. “Where are we going?”

“To the long gallery in the East Wing.” Before Jenevra could ask another question, her aunt supplied, “To take a look at the last Imperial Protector’s uniform. Maybe we can get some ideas for yours there.”

The three of them stood around the glass case. Lennia’s eyes were sparkling and Arrilia Neilla’s lips were folded tightly together. Jenevra stared at the tiny display of sapphire studded leather, aghast. “You cannot be serious!” She walked around it, shaking her head in disbelief. “He wasn’t wearing that in the portrait Phillip showed me. Absolutely not! I’m not sure it’s even legal.” She frowned at the display. “Certainly shouldn’t be; you’d catch your death in that.” She looked over at her Aunt and lady-in-waiting. “You can’t possibly see me in something like this?”

“Not really, dear, no.” Arrilia Neilla smiled. “But you get the idea? It needs to be something eye-catching.”

“I get the idea, Aunt Neilla.” Jenevra’s shock threw out her carefully remembered formality. “But that’s eye-catching, not eye-gouging we’re looking for.” She shook her head at the display case again. “I don’t know what the last Imperial Protector was going for, but I’ll bet any number of assassins got past him while everyone was busy staring at his—”

“Jenevra!”

“Jewels … I was going to say jewels, Aunt Neilla. Honestly.”

“Yes, well, why don’t you and Lennia go find Serena and see what you can conjure up? Just remember it needs to be ready by the wedding.”

“You want me to wear this for the wedding? Lady Massili has other plans, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I believe Phillip’s plan is to formally invest you with the title during the evening banquet and ball. You will need to change into it then.” The Empress started to leave, and then turned back. “Oh, and Jenevra?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t forget to uniform your Flight too, dear. They looked almost as scruffy as you trotting in yesterday.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dowager Empress Arrilia Neilla drew her shoulders back, and took a short, assessing glance into the mirror. Not bad, she thought. She was still as straight and slim as she’d been in her youth, although even she had to admit that she didn’t move quite so smoothly any more. Her platinum blonde hair had faded to regal silver that was still very becoming to a woman at her stage of life. She had chosen her gown carefully for this, her final appearance as the legal ruler of the empire. After today her son, Phillip, would be officially enthroned as Emperor, and married. A new Empress would sit next to the throne Arrilia Neilla had held for the last fifteen years.

Smoothing the satin skirt, she turned a little each way in front of the mirror, smiling to herself as she watched the myriad layers of pale gold tissue swirl around her. It was in this same room that she had pirouetted like this many times with Saphila; the night of their first Ball, the day each of them married; birthdays and celebrations of over fifty years. Now, she was the oldest one left: the matriarch of the family. And she was handing it all over today.

Sighing softly she turned to her Lady-in-waiting. Lennia Manvi had been with her since she was a young girl, and over the years their relationship had become close. Lennia had been there for her during her greatest griefs. The miscarriages of her early marriage; the deaths of her two first born sons and her beloved sister during wars that had torn the Empire apart , and then the loss of her husband, the Emperor, when her last child was only ten years old. It hadn’t been easy to hold such a trembling unity together, but Lennia had been a strong support to her, and Arrilia Neilla had learned to fight to save the Empire for her son. Today was the culmination of everything they had struggled to achieve, and now she would walk into the Temple alone, accompanied only by her familiar ghosts, to start the new page of Phillip’s reign.

With the quiet confidence of an old friend, Lennia placed the Empress’s high gold and pearl tiara onto Arrilia Neilla’s hair and pressed gently on the other woman’s shoulders. Looking into the mirror, Lennia gazed straight into her Empress’s eyes and smiled. “You did a fine job raising him, Neilla. He’ll be a strong leader like his father…and a great ruler–like his mother.” Her brown eyes filled with tears as she said it, and she dabbed at them with the corner of her veil. “Oh, now, look at me, going all maudlin on you. You’d think I’d be past that at my age.”

“Our age,” Arrilia Neilla corrected her ruefully. “And I feel every day of it today. It’s not that I mind handing over to Phillip,” she said, moving across the chamber to the large oriel window and leaning her cheek against the cold stone of a pillar. “I really think he will be just fine. I just can’t help remembering when they were all children together here, running around down in the gardens.” She turned back into the room, settling the tiara firmly in place and brushing vaguely at her eyes. “It seems such a long time since we heard the sound of children’s laughter here, don’t you think?”

“Well, I’m hoping that His Majesty will be remedying that in short order,” Lennia said with a laugh belying her years. “I’m sure they’ll be practicing hard anyway!”

“Lennia!” Arrilia Neilla shot her a quick amused look. Yes, she was also sure that her son and his bride would have no problems with finding each other attractive. It had a challenge to keep them separated for the last seven years or so, until they could officially be married, and as teenagers they’d certainly been creative in some of their attempts to avoid their chaperones. At least there had been no problems trying to find an acceptable bride for Phillip. He’d wanted to marry his beautiful blonde cousin for a long time, and Christiana had been as keen as he was.

Seeing Christiana and Jenevra together always brought back memories of her own childhood and the younger sister who had died, leaving her four children to be brought up in the Royal household. No, it hadn’t been easy, but the children had formed strong bonds between them, and that was definitely going to be a strength of Phillip’s rule. Instead of having to fight as she had done, with few supporters, Phillip would have at least three major Duchies right at his side, ready to band their forces together to squash any insurgents.

A gentle knock on the door was answered by Lennia, and Commander Rabenaldt entered the room. He swept his plumed hat off with a somewhat shaky bow and came towards Arrilia Neilla at the window. His thick hair had shots of gray flecking it, and his face was weathered with years in the outdoors, but he still moved with the assurance of a man in his prime. “They are ready when you are, Your Majesty,” he held his arm out to her. “Will you permit me to escort you to the Temple?”

The Dowager Empress laid a slim hand on his sleeve and squeezed her thanks. Tilting her head up at him, she gazed into clear gray eyes and smiled at him. “Dearest Raik. Whatever would I have done without you and Lennia all these years?” Reaching out her other hand she took hold of Lennia’s hand, and the three of them stood together, silently remembering: the Old Guard readying to resign their commissions to the New Order.

“Well, let’s get on with this then,” she said. “This Empire is ready to meet its new Emperor.”

As they walked through the hallways of the Imperial Palace, Raik stole a sideways look at Arrilia Neilla, awed as always by his Empress’ beauty and strength. Clearing his throat gently, he began, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Of course.” Arrilia Neilla kept looking straight ahead, processing regally past guard and servants, acknowledging their bows and softly voiced good wishes with a smile and a nod.

The Commander nodded. “Phillip thinks she’s made a great compromise available for him; a logical solution he can use to pacify the traditionalists, without too much danger of it ever being truly necessary in a military capacity.” Raik smiled broadly as he thought about the situation. He’d known Jenevra almost since she was born, when he had been a young lieutenant in the party that rescued her from the warriors who killed her parents. Ever since then, she’d been more than a handful for the whole Imperial Palace, always managing to either instigate trouble, or being caught in the midst of it. If anyone could bring the new Empire to its knees, she would be the one he would place money on. Of course, she wouldn’t mean to do it. Jenevra always did things with the best of intentions; they just rarely finished the way she thought they would.

“Damn!” Arrilia Neilla swore under her breath, bringing Raik’s attention back to the present. “Why is she doing this? I don’t understand why she has to be Imperial Protector.

“You didn’t tell her no, did you?” Raik sounded troubled. “I thought you’d come round to the idea?”

“No,” Arrilia Neilla sighed slightly. “I actually told her to sort out a formal uniform.” Raik’s eyes widened, twinkling with amusement as she continued, “Lennia and I took her to see Searcy Proche’s old outfit … just for an idea of what to model hers on.”

“You didn’t!”

Arrilia Neilla smiled. “She was so startled she even forgot to call me ‘Your Majesty’.” She shared a wistful glance with him. “Ah, Raik, why couldn’t she choose something less provocative?”

“The outfit?”

“Don’t be silly! Another role. Why Imperial Protector? It’s never been anything but bad luck. Didn’t they teach her meditation or obedience to duty, or something useful on that island?”

“I think you’ll find that this is obedience, or duty, in Jenevra’s eyes, Majesty.” Raik was serious now. “She’s working with the new Flight, and I have to say she’s doing pretty well. You saw her lead them in yourself; at least they’re following her. And, I understand from Brogan that she’s managed to severely impress most of them already. We’ve talked with her and with Phillip about what she’s doing, and the plan she has for the Flight is logical. So is her role as Imperial Protector, really. She is the youngest, there are two males ahead of her in line to the throne; by all standards, and by tradition, she is the most expendable member of the Imperial family.”

Arrilia Neilla stopped, dug her nails into Raik’s arm in sudden anger, and turned flashing eyes on him. “No member of my family is ever expendable!” she hissed between clenched teeth. “Do you imagine I buried half of my family, just to have some foolish child decide who is and is not worthy of being part of it?” Snatching her hands together in fury, she stalked off down the hallway towards the great doors of the Palace.

Raik’s long stride soon caught her and, matching her pace, he tried again. “You know that’s not what I meant. Besides, Phillip told me that the Protectorship really was his idea, and he had to convince Jenn to take it.” He nodded at Arrilia Neilla’s disbelieving look. “I believe him Neilla. Plus, the Order has some agenda in all of this, I’m certain. Jenevra’s following a plan they’ve set down, although I’m not sure if she’s even aware of it. I do know that those who have sworn themselves to the Order place nothing above it … nothing. Not even family.” His mouth twitched as he glanced across at the woman he loved beyond all else. Devotion was something he understood only too well. He also knew that Jenevra’s safety wasn’t the only thing about this that bothered Arrilia Neilla. “You’re just mad that you won’t be controlling it all from now on.”

The Empress spun back towards him, only to see him grinning at her. Realizing how she’d been played, Arrilia Neilla had the grace to take his proffered arm again; walking together through the huge iron doors, out into the chill brightness of a spring afternoon. “It is harder than I thought it would be,” she admitted somewhat wistfully. “But you know there are other issues at stake here, Commander; my niece’s stubbornness and my son’s manipulative streak notwithstanding.”

There was no time for discussion for the next several minutes as the Empress was arranged, by various maids and footmen, into the open carriage that would take her to the Temple. She had insisted on using this carriage so that she could be open to the view of all her people as she said her farewell to them as Empress. That had been another argument she had had with Raik. He had wanted her to use the State carriage which was enclosed and, therefore, protected. She had argued that it was her duty to let the people see her fully; that it didn’t really matter if she was not protected as she would no longer be the Empress anyway. “Expendable are you?” Raik called softly for her ears only, riding alongside the Carriage as it pulled away from the palace. “Just like your niece … stubborn.” He cantered away to the front of the procession, leaving Arrilia Neilla traveling alone towards her abdication.

The Temple of the Seven Gods had been invaded by the Lord Chamberlain and his floral franchise several days before the ceremonies began. The priests hadn’t really been too interested in the decorations of the Temple, preferring the austere stonework massive and unadorned to remind those passing underneath the huge vaulted ceilings of their insignificance. Their concerns were for the legal and technical aspects of the joint abdication and coronation to be fully realized and adhered to. Temple scholars had been studying the traditional texts for months now, ensuring that no detail was missed.

The Lord Chamberlain had taken his carte blanche and run amok with it. It wasn’t often a chance for such huge ceremonials came up, and he would have this one as his claim to eternal fame in the history books. Every possible connection of the Imperial Family had been researched by the College of Heraldry, and banners, flags and buntings representing each one had been created in brightly colored silks, flowing around the Temple walls like a psychedelic nightmare. His flower choices, fortunately, weren’t quite as garish. The Lord Chamberlain had decided to complement the Imperial party’s red and gold with monochromatic floral arrangements in white and cream; a haven of peace for the eyes in the midst of his colorful chaos.

Guests had begun arriving hours earlier, strolling around the Temple greeting each other. As the hour for the ceremonies to begin had drawn nearer, they began to take their places on the long marble benches facing the main altar. On the benches the Lord Chamberlain had placed long, thickly padded cushions, much to the gratitude and relief of many guests who hadn’t relished the idea of spending too much time on the cold marble. The Lord Chamberlain had, in fact, said for years that regular attendance at Temple services would triple if they ever thought to pad the seats a little. A bank of trumpeters took their places in an overhead gallery, while a choir of priests and acolytes began soft anthems from their place to the right of the main dais.

The Lord Chamberlain greeted the Chancellor as he arrived at the main doors of the Temple, along with the chief Priests. A brief hushed discussion confirmed that everything was in readiness, and Chancellor Menzetti escorted his frail wife slowly to their places at the front of the Temple, where Serena Massili and her brother greeted them warmly. All of the Imperial family’s closest friends were seated in the front rows, with just a few chairs left now for the immediate family.

The Couressimes were the closest family that Arrilia Neilla and Phillip Marissime had, and Stephan, Christiana, Richard and Jenevra entered the Temple together. Stephan escorted Christiana, followed by Richard with Jenevra. All four were dressed in deep red with gold trim, the colors designated for only the Imperial party. Their arrival signaled the guests that the ceremonies were about to begin, and a hush descended over the assembly. As the four Couressimes took their places, the sound of the crowds outside cheering could be heard. The people loved their Empress and were giving her as vocal a demonstration of that as they knew how. As the sound swelled, the congregation rose and the trumpeters began their first fanfare; a ringing cascade of notes heralding the arrival of the Empress.

The High Priest of Tore led the Imperial procession from the vast plaza outside into the Temple, his simple white robe adorned only with a gold sash in honor of the occasion. Behind him, the next two senior ranked priests walked, carrying the heavy ruby encrusted Imperial crown in front of the Empress and future Emperor. Arrilia Neilla and Phillip walked side by side directly behind the priests; the Empress wearing the Pearl Tiara of the Empress for the last time, Phillip bare-headed beside her. Their carriages had met at the steps of the Temple, Phillip taking his mother’s arm, turning her around to receive the acclamation of her people. The crowd went wild. The people had always admired the strength Arrilia Neilla had shown throughout her life. However badly things had gone for her, she had always had time to remember the ordinary people of the Empire. Even in the midst of some of her greatest tragedies, she had not hidden from them. She had been there, at the head of the realm, strong, dignified and caring.

As befitted the occasion both Arrilia Neilla and Phillip were clad in gold robes, and long crimson trains were clasped to their shoulders prior to their procession into the Temple, dragging behind them both. At the main temple doors, Phillip kissed his mother’s hands respectfully then stood back, allowing her to proceed up the long aisle alone. Phillip entered a small chamber, accompanied by the Deacon of Salanova, to await his coronation in prayer.

Arrilia Neilla walked towards the High Altar, the heavy train slowing her steps from her usual briskly purposeful stride to a more suitably regal pace. All eyes in the Temple followed her as she made her way along the aisle. Women curtsied and men bowed as she passed; Kings, Queens, Dukes, Duchesses, nobles of every stripe paid her homage as she began the ceremony that would end her reign over them. Reaching the High Altar, and ascending the few steps to the top of the dais where it stood, she turned to face the entire congregation. Trumpets sounded a long fanfare as the four Couressimes moved from their chairs to stand in front of her, at the base of the dais. As the fanfare reached its last phrase, Stephan, Richard, Christiana and Jenevra sank onto their knees, signaling the rest of the congregation to follow suit. Rustling silks and satins whispered as the last notes of the trumpets faded into silence.

Into the stillness, the High Priest’s voice carried clearly, praising the virtues of the Empress, recalling her strengths and actions as supreme leader of the Empire. Moving to stand behind Arrilia Neilla, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder and she knelt. The choir began a soft anthem as the High Priest prayed over his Empress, calling upon God to reward her grace and obedience, her wisdom and humility in laying down the Crown. A single young chorister’s voice soared to heaven in a beautiful soprano as the High Priest laid his hands either side of Arrilia Neilla’s head, and lifted the Tiara from her head. Receiving a much smaller crown, a delicate filigree of gold threads and diamonds traditionally used by the Mother of the Emperor, from another Priest, he placed it onto her head as the choir swelled to yet another theme, this time backed by trumpets in celebration.

The Couressimes bowed respectfully to their aunt; a bittersweet moment for all of them. Aunt Neilla had been their Empress for almost all of their lives, and it would be strange not to see her in that role any more. Arrilia Neilla’s role as Empress had pretty much defined their Aunt to them; it was a part of who she was. What changes would they see in her now?

Arrilia Neilla rose to her feet, acknowledging the applause of the assembly with a gracious smile. Assisted by two of the Priests, she moved to one side of the dais to await the arrival of the new Emperor.

Placing the Imperial Crown on the High Altar, the High Priest turned to face down the long aisle. Silence fell almost immediately.

To the sound of the one clear voice, raised in the same song as it had for the Empress, Phillip began his journey towards the High Altar. The purity of the single soprano melody sang of the purity of heart required of those who live to serve their country, of the sacrifices to be made by the Emperor in putting his duty to the Empire above all else. The song echoed the separateness of the office of Emperor, the isolation of responsibility. The song tugged at Jenevra’s heart, reminding her of the similar sacrifices she and Phillip were both sworn to, and she lowered her head in fervent prayer for her cousin. A warm hand squeezed hers, holding it closely. Looking up she gave Richard a shaky smile.

Passing by the last of the marble seats before the Altar, Phillip paused to bow to the assembled Priests. The song began to swell into joyousness of having found an Emperor willing to take his place at the head of the nations; a celebration of the obedient and willing heart of the man in front of them. Kneeling upon the last step of the dais, Phillip bowed his head in token of the humility of service; an acknowledgement that he would look to the gods for his trust and strength. In a clear voice he answered the challenges of the Priests; that he would defend the Empire from all harm; always seek to do what was best for the people of the Empire as a whole; that he would hold himself to the highest standards of morality and behavior, and insist upon the same from all who were under his command.

As Phillip completed the ritual phrases, the High Priest anointed him, raised him up and sat him on a curule chair set in place as the ceremony had been happening. Phillip sat, facing the congregation, darkly handsome in crimson and gold; deep brown eyes looking steadily at the world he was about to rule. Just briefly his eyes met Christiana’s, and a flicker of a smile crossed his face. Then he focused on the words of the High Priest again, responding in a loud, clear voice that he was prepared to become the Soul of the Empire.

Arrilia Neilla approached the High Altar with the High Priest, both bowing reverently. With prayer, the High Priest lifted the Imperial Crown high above him, calling the protection and blessings of all seven greater Gods down upon the head of the next ruler of the Empire. Handing the Crown to Arrilia Neilla, the High Priest continued his declamation until Arrilia Neilla, tears in her eyes for she knew both the joy of power and the pains of responsibility that this would bring upon him, placed the crown upon her son’s head.

“Phillip Orsatti Marissime, by the grace of our Gods, Emperor Phillip the Second of the Marissime Empire; rise and meet your people!”

Arrilia Neilla was the first to kneel, raised quickly by Phillip. “Never bow to me, mother. It doesn’t suit you.” He shot her a quick grin, kissed her on the cheek, and she found herself smiling through her tears.

Trumpet fanfares erupted throughout the Temple, and Phillip made his way slowly back down the aisle, receiving deep obeisance from the gathered throng. The High Priest followed directly behind him with Arrilia Neilla. “So,” the High Priest said quietly to her. “Can I be expecting to perform a marriage soon?”

Arrilia Neilla looked puzzled. “Your Grace? Surely you haven’t forgotten? The day after tomorrow?”

Now the High Priest looked perplexed. Sudden comprehension dawned on him, and he laughed. “No, Your Majesty. Not the Emperor. I was wondering if you and Commander Rabenaldt were going to—.” He stopped, unsure of the look on her face.

“What?” Arrilia Neilla hissed at him. “What do you mean, Commander Rabenaldt and me?” She waved regally at people as they walked down the aisle. “Who said anything about Raik, I mean Commander Rabenaldt and me?”

The High Priest smiled at her, knowingly. “Would you believe me if I said that God told me?”

Arrilia Neilla smiled and nodded at several Dukes from her own home region of Trevannta. “I think the gods have better things to do,” she murmured.

“My dear Arrilia Neilla,” the High Priest spoke with the familiarity of long acquaintance. “A blind man can see how you two feel about each other … and have done for years, if I may say so. Don’t you think it’s time for you to have a little happiness back in your life?”

The opportunity to answer him was lost, for Phillip had emerged into the bright sunlight of the plaza outside the Temple, and the people of Salanova had erupted into tumultuous acclamation, the noise drowning out any further attempts at conversation for those following them. Phillip stood on the white marble steps acknowledging their greeting; a striking figure, crimson and gold blazing like a beacon, a flame igniting the heart of the Empire to new life in his reign.

As his mother emerged slowly from the shadow of the Temple doorway, the crowds were swelled to new heights of appreciation for this family. Phillip took Arrilia Neilla’s hand and led her out onto the steps with him where they waited, warmed by the adulation of their people, for the carriages that would take them back to the Imperial Palace, and the celebrations that would last all night.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Palace staff was lining the courtyard as the Emperor’s carriage drew up. Cooks, maids, butlers, grooms; anyone who worked in or around the Palace had come to welcome their new Master home, and to acknowledge and thank their old Mistress. Cheers echoed around the entrance hall as Phillip and Arrilia Neilla were welcomed officially by the Master of Keys, official gatekeeper of the Palace.

The Marissun family had never been difficult to work for, unlike other noble families where bad tempers and beatings were a way of life. As such, their staff adored them. They knew how different their lives could have been under another ruler. So, it was almost a family celebration atmosphere in the Imperial Palace as they arrived, which Phillip was quick to acknowledge, thanking them all for welcoming them back into their home.

Entering the formal throne room, Arrilia Neilla pushed Phillip gently towards the vacant chair. “Go on. It’s yours now.” A slightly wistful smile, accompanied the statement. Squeezing her hand, Phillip ascended the shallow stairs to his throne, leaving the Lord Chamberlain’s deputy to escort the Dowager Empress to her seat on a lower step to his right. Servants bustled efficiently, ensuring their Emperor and his mother had food and drinks in their hands swiftly. It would be a long time before they would eat properly as the ceremonial greeting of their guests would likely extend for several hours.

As closest family members, the Couressimes were the first to enter the room and greet their cousin and Emperor, but with the numbers of people arriving quickly behind them there wasn’t time for more than a brief congratulatory handshake between the men, and hugs from the girls. Christiana managed to plant a quick kiss on her fiancé’s lips, before being shunted off to one side near Richard and Jenevra.

“Leave him alone! Can’t you wait?” Richard murmured in her ear.

“Kissing in public? Yuk, you’re so embarrassing, Chris,” Jenevra grinned.

Christiana didn’t have time to make the response she felt would have been appropriate as the Lord Chamberlain organized the official greeting line; lining the Imperial Party up ready to greet all the dignitaries who had come to attend their Emperor’s inauguration. Phillip, of course, headed the line from his throne. Arrilia Neilla’s chair was brought to his left hand, with the Couressimes arranged in age following on. Chancellor Menzetti stood to Phillip’s right as his closest advisor, with the Lord Chamberlain slightly in front of him, announcing each person as they came forward to pay their respects.

A long line of nobles waited to be presented, and many others just milled around in the vast room, knowing they would be later in the line and taking the time to talk with each other. Greetings were swapped, families met with cousins they hadn’t seen for years, births were commented on, alliances agreed and weddings planned; plots were hatched and promises made.

Jenevra felt the onset on another headache, growing as the number of people in the room increased. Catching the gaze of a guard in ceremonial silver tunic at the back of the room, she mouthed a question. Brogan nodded in reply. The Shadow Flight, looking splendid in their new uniforms, stood all around the hall, ostensibly on guard duty, but listening for all they were worth. There wouldn’t be much information in the room that didn’t end up in the Emperor’s ears between Jenevra’s Flight of eavesdroppers and Chancellor Menzetti’s official spies. Satisfied even Will Theiss and Gervaise D’Agostino appeared to be behaving themselves appropriately today; Jenevra turned her attention to the onslaught of nobles heading towards them. Peering along the line, Jenevra saw Chancellor Menzetti’s wife, Graea, sitting quietly to the side of the dais to his right. Catching Jenevra’s glance, Graea Menzetti smiled at her. A little startled given the Chancellor’s well-known dislike of her, Jenevra smiled back. Graea motioned to her, a small gesture telling Jenevra to focus, to pay attention. Jenevra bowed her head obediently then realized where she had seen that gesture before. Raising her eyes to look again at the Chancellor’s wife, she found Graea Menzetti had gone.

Before she could think about it anymore, the old King of Lorthia arrived in front of her with his third wife and the sons of his second marriage. King Caddoc Wargentin was in his seventies now, and was either the envy or laughing stock of those who saw him, having recently married the twenty six year old niece of King Corros of Diruthia. Odilia was an attractive young woman, blonde, buxom and gentle; an appealing combination for a man in his twilight years. Jenevra greeted them all warmly. King Caddoc had not visited the Imperial Court very often, but relations between the Empire and Lorthia had always been cordial. Caddoc’s second son, Conall, was still unmarried and the King was obviously looking for a suitable match, clutching Jenevra’s hand with his own gnarled one and asking if she had accepted any offers yet.

“I have only recently returned to the Imperial Court, Your Majesty,” Jenevra tried to be diplomatic. “Any plans must wait until I know my Emperor’s wishes.”

“Ha! Splendid. There, you see, Conall; you still have a chance!” Caddoc’s hearing was going, so everyone within twenty feet of them heard him. Baran, Conall’s immense and exuberant older brother, grinned widely at his brother’s embarrassment. Conall looked rather as though he would like to sink through the floor, and Jenevra would certainly have joined him. He could barely look into Jenevra’s eyes as he greeted her.

“My apologies, Your Highness.”

Jenevra shook her head slightly, glancing to one side as Conall’s large blonde brother greeted her own similarly statuesque siblings. “No need, Your Highness.” She smiled at the shy, brown-haired prince, recognizing a kindred spirit. “If that’s as embarrassed as I get today, I’ll count myself lucky.”

Aleksander, the King of Abalos Colles, a three region state to the South of the Marissime Empire, greeted her warmly. Like the Lorthians, the family of Abalos Colles did not venture out of their realm too frequently, but Arrilia Neilla and Daneshka Brecc, the King’s wife, had corresponded for many years, having been friends in their youth. The King had striking hazel eyes that made a vivid contrast to his pure white hair, reminding Jenevra of someone she knew, but couldn’t quite put a finger on whom. His wife was a tall woman with deep auburn hair of a shade that, again, just flickered a shadow in Jenevra’s memory.

King Corros of Diruthia introduced his children to the Imperial party with swift formality that was almost lost on Jenevra. His arrival coincided with a severe increase in her headache that made her wince, and grit her teeth. She barely recollected greeting his son, Cieren, or his daughter, Artela; although she was almost sure she had promised to dance with Cieren at some point.

The principal royal guests passed, leaving the huge ranks of nobility to follow them in pledging their loyalties to the new Emperor. As most of them held ranks similar to the Couressime family, without being members of the Imperial family, Jenevra and her siblings were able to stand down from the dais and mix with the throng in the hall. Shedding the heavy velvet mantle she’d had to endure for the ceremonies, Jenevra handed it over to a maid, rolling her shoulders in relief from the weight and heat of it. Wandering around the edge of the room, she came up to Gervaise D’Agostino, standing smartly to attention, an evilly spiked spear resting in his hand. “Very natty,” the princess muttered as she strolled past him. “Anything interesting?”

D’Agostino shook his head slightly, shifting his spear to his other shoulder. “Only gossip so far, Your Highness,” he said under his breath. Dark eyes twinkling, he winked slyly at her. “Looking rather devastating yourself, Captain.” All of the Shadow Flight had quickly gathered their Captain’s distaste for formal clothing, particularly when she had inspected them in their new uniforms before the coronation. The silver tunics over brightly buffed chain mail had caused some caustic comments from the princess, in language that she certainly hadn’t learned at the Island. Sticking her nose in the air in mock disgust, Jenevra swirled her crimson skirts dramatically, and headed back into the crowd. She’d seen Raik and Richard together earlier, and wanted to find them again. Every time she thought she’d spotted them through the crowd, someone else would grab her attention.

Knowing that Chancellor Menzetti and the Council would look for any excuse to prevent her official installation as Imperial Protector, Jenevra greeted and chatted with everyone. Eventually, she bumped into Blaise Tessier, Captain of the Eagle Flight, and her shoulders drooped as she recognized that the one familiar face she managed find in the crowd was the one she least wanted to see.

In his best formal blue uniform for the occasion, Captain Tessier was distractingly handsome. Although his long hair was tied with black ribbon, strands floated around the edge of his face in a way that made her fingers itch to reach out and push it back. His shave, as always, left just enough along his jaw to look as though he hadn’t bothered; his moustache and beard making a dark outline, shadowing a deeply kissable set of lips. “Well, hello, Princess,” Tessier kissed her hand, gazing intently into her eyes; watching for the uncomfortable squirm he thought he would find there.

Pulling her hand away, trying to distance herself from him, and finding that the crush around them prevented it; Jenevra resorted to irritation.

Tessier moved closer again, his arm around the back of her waist, ostensibly directing her through the mass of people towards the open terraces, his own amusement growing as he noted how truly awkward she was with him.

“Yes, thank you, Captain. Hands front, please.” Jenevra moved out of his touch, a tingling feeling running up her spine. Smoothing down the front of her dress, for no other reason that it gave her something to do with her hands; she stepped out onto the wide terrace overlooking the gardens.

Tessier took a couple of glasses of wine from a passing servant and handed one to Jenevra. “Still not quite there are you?” He walked over to the marble balustrade along the edge of the terrace.

“Not quite where, Captain? I don’t understand.” Jenevra’s eyebrows drew together in a frown.

“Let’s see.” Tessier leaned closer with one arm resting on the balustrade. “Here you are, Your Highness, what … twenty now?”

“Nineteen, thank you, and why don’t we just make it Captain, you know, now that we’re colleagues—fellow officers, as it were. I’m really tired of the whole Highness thing. It’s just not me.”

“Nineteen then, and that’s the problem isn’t it? What’s a nineteen year old princess doing leading an Imperial Flight? It’s just not normal … unnatural even.” He grinned, anticipating the angry response.

Jenevra glared up at him, dark lashes fanning out around those piercing blue eyes which were flashing dangerously now. Damn the man, she thought, frantically trying to hold on to the anger.

Captain Tessier was entertained. He had noted the protective stance so many of the other men had taken with the young princess and, seeing her discomfort with anything approaching close contact, he began to see a way to pay her back for their initial meeting. The scruffy, grubby girl he’d encountered in Frann had cleaned up remarkably well, but there was a brittle quality to her, as if there was a shell she wrapped around herself to keep people away. Expert on women that he was, Captain Tessier was planning to see how long it would take him to crack that shell. She was totally unlike all the simpering, manipulative women who constantly chased him around the Imperial court, and with the combination of long dark hair framing an almost elfin face, and those eyes that any man could lose himself in. Well, he was willing to admit that his first reaction to her may have been more than just a little wrong. The crimson gown she was wearing today emphasized the tiny waist, and the more womanly features that had developed since she was last at court. Wondering how it would feel to hold that body against his, Tessier sighed. Knowing the princess, painful is how it would feel. Deciding to move onto safer ground he actually took a step back, shaking his head. “Ah, Princess! You have absolutely no idea. You should be out in the gardens, flirting, dancing, and falling in love; doing all those things young Princesses are supposed to do.”

“Flirting? Falling in love?” A cynical smile curved her mouth even as a slightly wistful expression clouded her eyes. “I wouldn’t know how. I’ve never been trained for that.”

Leaning back on the balustrade, Captain Tessier turned his head towards her, a wicked gleam lighting his eyes as his lazy smile emerged suggestively. “I’m always available for lessons, Princess. You can call on me any time.”

“Hogging the beautiful ladies again, Tessier?” Reiff Pichot’s nasal bray interrupted Jenevra’s embarrassment. “And our delightful Princess is out here, hiding herself away from all of us.” Pichot reached out a clammy hand to take hold of Jenevra’s, who shot Tessier a look of alarm.

Swinging Jenevra out of Pichot’s reach; Tessier said blandly, “Hate to rush, old boy, but I did promise her highness a drink and a dance just a few moments ago. Can’t keep a lady waiting you know?” With his arm firmly about Jenevra’s waist, Captain Tessier strode back into the throne room, leaving Pichot glaring after them.

Jenevra gave him a brief, albeit reluctant, smile. “All right. You apologize for calling me unnatural, and I’ll owe you a dance. Are we even?”

Tessier smoothed his moustache with one finger, looking pensive. “Well, of course, I apologize, dear Princess. Can you ever forgive me?” His tone hovered on the knife edge between irony and sincerity. “Let’s say two dances, and maybe a visit to watch your Flight in action some time soon. I’d like to see how they do.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at her. “I was serious about helping you with those lessons, you know? I’d feel awfully guilty if I thought I hadn’t helped a fellow officer cover any missing aspect of their training.”

“You are a dangerous man, Captain Tessier.” Jenevra’s eyes glinted with a mix of suspicion, and curiosity. “I think maybe I should go mingle before you manage to convince me. I haven’t seen my brother or Raik yet.” Standing on tiptoe, she tried to peer over the heads of the crowd. Arrilia Neilla, Phillip and Chancellor Menzetti were still greeting people up on the dais. Christiana was standing off to the side, impatiently waiting for Phillip to have some time for her. Lennia and Serena were with her; Serena also casting anxious glances around the room for her own brother. Rafael Massili was near the entrance to the vast audience chamber, bushy red hair flaming like a beacon, talking in his usual wildly gesticulating fashion to Richard and Stephan Couressime, and Raik Rabenaldt. Several ladies were clinging around the edges of the group, but Jenevra dismissed them almost instantly; she didn’t know any of them.

“Would you like me to lift you up so you can see better?” Tessier whispered into her ear, his hands circling her waist sending a shiver down her spine.

“Don’t even think about it!” She hissed. “You still owe me a drink and a dance.”

“I thought you owed me?” Tessier watched as the princess disappeared into the throng; her lithe form slipping between and around people like a rippling crimson mist. Chuckling quietly to himself, Captain Tessier moved towards the other group of Imperial officers, as a roar of laughter erupted from them. Rafael Massili was obviously on top form today.

Sliding through the guests with a minimum of social stops, Jenevra made her way to the side of the Imperial throne where Christiana was still standing. “Still waiting, Chris?” She ignored the exasperated look her sister threw back at her.

Serena Massili, elegant in lilac satin for the occasion and looking, as always, controlled and cool, immediately began fussing around Jenevra’s dress and hair; patting, pulling, and generally ensuring perfection was attained. Frowning slightly, Jenevra batted Serena’s hands away. “Will you please stop pulling at me, Aunt Serena?” Serena merely raised her eyebrows and carried on adjusting imperceptible flaws. “You need to look …”

“Proper … I know!” Jenevra removed herself to stand next to Lennia. “Can’t you make her stop?”

Lennia leaned towards Jenevra. “What do you think she’s been doing to your sister and me for the last hour? You’re on your own.” Lennia and Christiana shared a satisfied grin. “Although, Jenevra, I have to say that you do look good in this gown. You have just enough color in your face for that shade of crimson not to make you look washed out.”

“What were you and Blaise Tessier discussing so intently, Jenn?” Christiana asked slyly. “And please don’t try to tell me it was tactics!”

“Not tactics—training. Is that Phillip waving, Chris?” In the split second it took Christiana to realize that her fiancé was not, in fact, waving at her, Jenevra had disappeared into the crowded room again. On the far side of the chamber, Jenevra thought she had spotted Mikyle Manvi talking to someone. She could see the dark auburn hair of a woman next to him, with another head of almost exactly the same shade of deep red curls standing facing away from her. Sifting through her mental catalogue of visiting Royals, Jenevra decided they must be the children of King Aleksander of Abalos Colles; the girl looked very like his wife, Daneshka. Mikyle had been fostered with the Dhorani family for some time before his teens, learning the skills and duties of a royal household along with their own children. Jenevra knew that Mikyle had remained close friends with the Prince and Princess, although he hadn’t seen them for some years, so it was no surprise to see him catching up with them now.

Intercepted by a Baron from her own home region of Coural, Jenevra was caught up in small talk with him until the Lord Chamberlain finally announced that the greeting ceremony was over, and that dinner would be served. The vast throng of people swept her towards the banqueting hall before she had a chance to find Mikyle again.

A sudden pull on her arm snatched her out of the surging crowd; Blaise Tessier again. “Making a habit of needing rescuing today, Your Highness?” He grinned.

“You know, you’re not funny, Captain!” Jenevra snapped; making the mistake of looking into his face. Biting her lip hard so as not to smile at him Jenevra grudgingly took hold of the arm he offered and headed towards the antechamber with him.

The room was crowded. All of the visiting Royal families were congregated there too, waiting for the lesser nobility to be seated. The Lord Chamberlain, waiting to introduce them, was busy organizing them into the correct order as far as he could. Stephan’s appearance at her side blocked most of Jenevra’s view of the room, even as her talisman suddenly gave a violent twitch, sending sharp waves of pain signaling imminent danger into her mind. Catching her breath, she shaded her eyes with her hand; gritting her teeth against the headache which she was just realizing must be tied to the talisman. It was warning her whenever there was a threat to Phillip.

The Imperial Officers were announced together, and Commander Rabenaldt led his Captains into the hall. Lady Lennia Manvi entered side by side with Admiral Massili. Conall, the younger Prince of Lorthia, escorted Serena Massili. In short order, the Imperial party was called.

“His Imperial Highness, Stephan Couressime, Duke of Coural, and Her Royal Highness, Princess Allegra Dhorani of Abalos-Colles.”

“His Imperial Highness, Richard Couressime, Duke of Orsattin, and Her Royal Highness Princess Artela Balochin of Diruthia.”

“Her Imperial Highness, Christiana Couressime, Duchess of Maressia, and His Royal Highness, Prince Baran of Lorthia, Duke of Liotchka.”

Her Imperial Highness, Jenevra Couressime, Duchess of Coursim, and His Royal Highness, Prince Mikhail Dhorani of Abalos-Colles, Duke of Kansk.”

Stepping forward to take her place at the Prince’s side, Jenevra realized, through a haze, he was the auburn haired man Mikyle had been talking with. Fearing she would be physically ill from the threat she could feel around them all, the princess made the barest curtsey; looked up into familiar hazel eyes and gasped. “Misha!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Lord Chamberlain was propelling them forward as Mikhail Dhorani was also breathing, “Jenna?”

There was no time. They couldn’t talk. With fingers locked rigid on Prince Mikhail’s arm, Jenevra walked slowly to the Imperial table where a steward seated them. Heart thumping wildly, Jenevra could hardly believe that Misha was here, holding her arm. Leaving the Island she had believed that they would never see each other again, and that thought had cut deeply. Yet, here he was, less than a month later; a Prince, here in Salanova.

They weren’t seated anywhere near Captain Tessier; which was probably a good thing she decided. He was far too distracting for her to deal with him as well as the shock of Misha’s arrival. As they stood by their chairs waiting for the final arrivals to enter, Mikhail leaned close, as if brushing something off his sleeve. “Imperial Princess?” he whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Thunderous applause erupted as the Emperor, Phillip, entered the room with Arrilia Neilla on his arm. They stood for several minutes at the entrance, acknowledging the greeting, before proceeding to take their places for the feast.

Jenevra hardly glanced at Mikhail as he pushed her chair in towards the table. “Tell you?” she hissed back at him, pressing her fingers hard against her forehead. “Prince Mikhail? Who wasn’t telling whom?” She grabbed at the nearest goblet of wine, rolling it in her hands nervously. The man who had been her constant friend and companion, her training partner for the best part of five years turned up as a member of a royal family on her cousin’s coronation. How was she to treat him? The situation called for formality, when they had shared everything, every thought, every joy and sorrow, every pain and triumph on the island. They had a bond deeper than any of the others could know, and yet they were sitting next to each other as strangers. He didn’t even look the same. The deep auburn curls that fell about his face and shoulders today had always been scraped back into a tight braid on the island. She’d rarely seen him with his hair loose like this; it made him look totally different. Regular clothes made a difference too, rather than the gray tunics and pants they had routinely worn. The gray clothing of the island had always shaded his hazel eyes with a pale, almost yellow tone; today his eyes glowed green, reflecting the rich emerald color he wore.

It had only been a month since she’d left the Island, but that month was fast becoming a lifetime.

Abruptly aware that anyone could be watching her, wondering why she was being so awkward with this guest, she forced herself to turn and look at Misha: that face, so dear and familiar. Misha reached out his hand and placed it gently over hers on the table. She could see the questions running through his head too. Suddenly, all she wanted was to get out of the hall, to run out into the gardens with Misha and just walk; walk and talk like they had at the Island; where every day had found them sitting shoulder to shoulder by the fountains or streams in the cool of the evenings, listening to Dai’Nimh or one of the Masters.

“You look different, Misha. It’s the hair.” She reached out touching a curl falling on his shoulder.

“So do you.” He glanced away briefly. “I always knew you were different, but I don’t think I ever realized how beautiful you really are until today. You look like a woman, Jenna.”

“Er…I am a woman, Misha.” A slight smile appeared.

Noticing her pallor and the crease between her brows, Misha knew Jenevra well enough to recognize signs that something was wrong. Passing one hand gently over the gooseflesh on her arm, he frowned. “You aren’t cold, are you?”

“Of course not. Can’t you feel it?” Jenevra could see from his expression that he couldn’t, which puzzled her.

“Sorry, Jenn, no.” He looked concerned. “Anything I should know about?”

“I’m not sure. Don’t you get any sign from your talisman when there’s danger nearby?” She shook her head, trying to clear it. “There’s someone, or something, here that’s a threat.”

“Well, I’m quite dangerous, Jenn. Maybe it’s just picking up on me,” Misha suggested with a grin.

Laughing out loud, despite the throbbing in her head, Jenevra realized she’d been loud enough to make people look at them. Misha did his best to look aloof, until she kicked him sharply on the ankle. “Dangerous, Misha?” she giggled. “You know I always win.”

“Oh really?” Misha’s hazel eyes glinted. “Care to test that theory, my lady? Tomorrow morning?”

“Of course,” Jenevra smiled. “You won’t hold back just because I’m a princess now will you?”

You, my dear girl, have always been a princess,” Misha quipped. “I just never knew why until now.”

Airily choosing to ignore that, Jenevra changed the subject. “When did you arrive? I didn’t know you were going to leave the Island.”

Mikhail glanced along the table towards his parents. “I arrived here late last night, just in time to meet with my parents before today’s ceremonies. They had been told I was coming and brought appropriate clothes with them.” He pulled at the green doublet. “I feel a bit conspicuous not wearing gray to be honest.”

Jenevra smiled, understanding. Gesturing at the low-cut, tight laced crimson gown she was wearing, she said, “I know exactly how you feel.”

Misha stared intently down at her. “Your talisman … hasn’t anyone questioned it?”

Her hand went to the stone she wore around her neck. “No, but we can’t take them off anyway, so what does it matter?”

He nodded, his hand unconsciously seeking the affirmation of knowing that an identical charm still hung around his own neck.

“So, why did you leave the Island?” she pressed. “You still didn’t tell me.”

Misha’s answer was interrupted while servants bustled around serving meats, breads and various savory dishes to the table. Picking indifferently at a chicken leg, he told her of his journey from the Island to Salanova at the request of one of the five Senior Masters, Jai-Nimh, that he rejoin his family for this occasion. He had traveled with another member of the Order, and Jenevra’s eyes lit up when she heard that he was still in the Imperial Palace. If not for Misha’s hand clamping down hard upon her wrist, she would have run out to find him there and then. “Jenna, we were sent here, like you, for a reason. It’s not the time for impulsiveness. He’ll find you when the time is right.”

Pushing some bread around her plate, Jenevra nodded, knowing that he was right. Misha had always been a steadying influence on her: that was one of the reasons Dai-Nimh had put them together; one of the reasons they had been selected together for the ceremony in the Temple before she had left the island. Like two halves of the same coin, Dai-Nimh had said; like the ebb and flow of the tide; Misha and Jenna.

The meal dragged on. Neither of them ate much, too caught up in this discovery of themselves as different people to think about eating. Deeply involved with each other, they neither noticed, nor cared that others around them were noticing how entranced they seemed.

Richard Couressime had been watching them for some time. Pensively, he leaned behind Mikhail’s sister Allegra, and tapped his brother on the elbow. Annoyed at being disturbed from his conversation with the Abaleine Princess, Stephan glared at him. “What?”

“Ask Chris if little sister has ever met Mikhail Dhorani before?” Richard said.

“What?” Christiana’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward to peer around Stephan at Richard. “No. No, I don’t think so. Why?”

Richard didn’t answer, just nodded his head towards Jenevra and Misha, deep in conversation, eyes glued on each other. He raised questioning eyebrows at his sister. “Well?”

Christiana shook her head. “I don’t know, Richard. I don’t think they could have met, but we don’t know what Jenn’s been up to lately, do we?”

“The Crown Prince of Abalos Colles?” Richard looked skeptical. “With Jenn? You don’t really think so, do you?”

Christiana shook her head again. “I doubt it. She’s never shown any interest in men. They’re probably discussing something really fascinating, like military tactics. You know what she’s like. They’ll probably start moving the salt pots around soon.” She turned to face the young woman seated in between them. “Princess Allegra, you would know. Has your brother ever met our younger sister before?” She pointed towards the oblivious couple.

Allegra thought for a moment. “No … I’m fairly certain I’ve never seen her before, so that would rule out Mikhail having seen her. She’s a few years younger than you two isn’t she?”

“Just a few; she’s, what, nineteen now, Chris?” Richard waited for his sister’s confirmation.

“Well, Misha’s just turned twenty five, so they’re not likely to have been introduced at any social functions yet, are they? Although, Mikhail’s been away for the last few years, so that would put him even further out of possible contact.”

“Away? Where? Where has he been?” Richard sounded just a little panicky.

“I don’t really know. He went away about seven years ago and came back last night. He met us here. I haven’t really had much time to talk to him yet.” Allegra obviously considered the discussion closed, turning her attention back to the entrancingly muscled presence of Stephan Couressime.

Christiana and Richard stared at each other in disbelief. “No,” breathed Christiana. “No, they couldn’t possibly ….” They both looked across at Jenevra and Mikhail again; saw Mikhail brush some hair away from her face; saw Jenevra smiling at him.

“Apparently they could.” Richard looked grim.

Someone else had been watching Jenevra and Mikhail all through the meal. King Aleksander of Abalos Colles had been growing progressively more concerned as it became apparent that there was something brewing between his son and heir and the infamously troublesome Imperial Princess. With a marriage already on the brink of agreement with another Royal family, the last thing Aleksander needed was the kind of trouble that young woman could cause. Frowning, he beckoned his Prime Minister to him, whispering instructions before turning his attention back to his wife.

Finally, the guests spilled out once more into the large audience hall, onto the terraces and into the gardens of the Imperial Palace. Musicians struck up in the hall, and the floor was soon filled with dozens of couples. Out on the terrace, Mikyle Manvi found Mikhail, still with Jenevra. “You two seem to be getting along well,” he noted blandly.

Mikhail simply slapped his shoulder. “You know I never could resist a pretty face,” he laughed.

Conall, the younger prince of Bortka, approached the trio, bowing somewhat shyly in front of Jenevra and claiming the dance she’d promised him earlier. Accepting his arm graciously, while also warning him of her lack of practice at dancing, Jenevra took the floor with him amongst the other couples.

Prince Mikhail’s hazel eyes never stopped following her for a moment; Mikyle’s eyes didn’t waver from watching one of his closest friends. “Taken a shine to Her Imperial Highness, Mikhail?” Mikyle’s tone was non-committal.

Mikhail turned to look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you don’t seem to be able to tear your eyes away from her …” Captain Manvi left the statement hanging, waiting for Mikhail to speak.

Misha didn’t respond, just smiled slightly and carried on watching the princess whirl around the floor with Prince Conall in a lively dance.

Just as Mikyle was about to needle his friend again, Blaise Tessier appeared next to him. Nudging Mikyle in the ribs, he announced in a voice loud enough for Mikhail to hear, “Your friend seems smitten with our dear Princess, Captain Manvi.”

Mikyle grinned as Mikhail shot an irritated glance at Tessier.

Tessier, sensing another target almost as easy to irritate as the princess under discussion, leaned closer to Mikyle Manvi, confiding in a mock whisper, “She’s cleaned up quite nicely, hasn’t she?” He leered appreciatively at her as she passed close by them on the dance floor. With a sideways glance at Mikhail Dhorani, he wondered what it was that this man had that could make the icy little princess thaw to the point of smiling and laughing. And why wouldn’t she do either for him?

“You don’t understand her at all,” Mikhail snapped, suddenly angry with their conversation. Mikyle, one of his oldest friends and this insufferable lecher of an Imperial Captain talking of Jenevra as if they knew her … as if they could. Neither of them knew her the way he did. It was insupportable.

“But you do?” Mikyle looked at him. “I thought you just met today?”

Mikhail pushed past both of them, muttering, “I’ll talk to you later,” at Mikyle as he left.

“What’s up with—?” Mikyle shook his head at Misha’s back.

“Charming,” noted Tessier, returning to his observation of the princess. Now she was smiling at Conall Wargentin. Tessier’s pride was beginning to take a beating.

Richard Couressime appeared; Stephan trailing after him with Princess Allegra, Mikhail’s sister, hanging from his arm. Helplessly, Stephan allowed Allegra to drag him onto the dance floor as another lively air began. They joined the dance near Jenevra and Conall, bringing Richard’s attention back onto his younger sister. “Mikyle, you’ve known that family for a long time, yes?”

“Who? The Dhorani’s? Yes. Mikhail’s one of my oldest friends. Why?” Mikyle gestured towards Stephan, winking at Richard. “I think Stephan’s made a new friend.”

Richard dismissed that observation. “No, I was just trying to remember if Mikhail had ever been here before? I didn’t think he had, that’s all.”

“How interesting you should bring that up,” Tessier said. “We were just wondering that ourselves. He seems to have developed a sudden intense interest in your dear sister—not that she isn’t absolutely adorable, I’m sure. ”

“Yes, well they both seemed rather wrapped up in each other over dinner,” Richard noted dryly. “But then Christiana and I heard an interesting piece of information from Mikhail’s sister.”

Mikyle and Blaise perked up and looked at him intently. “Spit it out, Your Highness,” Blaise said, suddenly looking slightly less amused; eyes going colder.

“The besotted Prince has been … away … for the past seven years.” Richard’s expression grew cold as he watched the growing understanding slide across their faces. “Yes, just like my darling sister, no-one knows where Prince Mikhail has been. And suddenly they’re both here, gazing at each other like long-lost lovers. Something stinks, gentlemen, and I think we need to find out what it is.”

Blaise Tessier sloughed off his indolent courtier pose, manner changing instantly into the military commander he was. Straightening up, he looked dangerously alert, like a tiger on the hunt. Smoothing his moustache down, he announced, “Think it’s time to cut in on the Lorthian,” and marched directly onto the dance floor, straight up to Jenevra and Conall. “Excuse me, Your Highness,” he bowed smartly to Conall. “I believe Her Imperial Highness promised me this dance.” Without waiting for a reply, he took Jenevra’s hand and swung her smoothly back into the dance.

“Did I miss something, Captain Tessier?” Jenevra asked icily. “That was extremely rude, you know.”

Blaise looked down into her face. There was none of the softness about him that had been there earlier when he had rescued her from Reiff Pichot’s unwanted attention. Jaw tight, eyes focused, it was Tessier the Flight Captain who was holding the princess tightly, feeling tension course through her body as she realized that he was angry. “We were just a little concerned about your safety, Your Highness. There are some things going on here that are unusual. I decided to come and protect you, just in case.”

Jenevra stopped dead in the middle of the floor. “What?”

“Keep moving, Your Highness.” Blaise swung her on again. “We have information that someone here might be a danger to you.” He wasn’t too amused when Jenevra laughed.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Captain.” Jenevra was still laughing which didn’t convince him that she really was. “It’s just funny that you think anyone here could truly be a threat to me. Not …” she countered as she saw the disbelieving look on his face. “Not that I don’t appreciate your concern for me. But Conall wouldn’t hurt me: couldn’t hurt me.”

“Conall? Oh, it’s not him we’re worried about, Your Highness. It’s that other one: the supposed heir to Abalos Colles.”

“Misha? I mean … Prince Mikhail?” Jenevra stumbled in confusion. “Really, Captain Tessier, I don’t think you need to worry about him. He seemed perfectly harmless to me at dinner.”

“That’s interesting.” Tessier grew harsher again. “Because I have it on very good authority that no-one knows where he’s been for the last few years.” Jenevra looked down, knowing she would give it away if she met his gaze. “Funny that, isn’t it?” He continued. “We don’t even know that he really is the Prince of Abalos Colles. If no-one’s seen him in seven years or so, maybe he’s an imposter?”

“An imposter? Captain, really!” Her head still thumping with the talisman’s warning and unused to dancing without concentrating on the steps yet, Jenevra tripped over his feet.

“Gods, are you always this clumsy?” Tessier tightened his grip. “How would you know if he was or wasn’t an imposter, Princess?”

“You know something, Captain? I really don’t like your tone. You need to remember that I am, in fact, a member of the Imperial family; and I do not answer to you!” All this came from between clenched teeth. Snatching her arm away from him, Princess Jenevra stalked off the floor angry, and worried that her role as Protector could be jeopardized if her contact with Mikhail was suspect.

Captain Tessier watched her go, well aware that he had struck a nerve, and inwardly relishing the satisfaction he felt at making the princess so angry. Looking across the room, he gestured for Richard and Mikyle to meet him on the terrace. He didn’t see Mikhail intercept Jenevra, or King Aleksander beckon his son away from her immediately, calling him across to the Imperial dais where he was seated with the older royals.

Richard followed Tessier onto the terrace, but Mikyle lingered, watching Jenevra closely as Mikhail walked away from her.

“Ah, my son.” Aleksander slapped his son convivially on the back. “It is so good to have you back with us. Now we can move on. Things need to change in Abalos Colles. I was just discussing it with the Empress and the other Kings here.”

“Ex-Empress, Aleksander,” Arrilia Neilla reminded him. “Phillip gets all the hard work now. I’m retired.”

“Dowager Empress at least, Arrilia Neilla, surely?” Aleksander chuckled. “Anyway, Mikhail, now you’re home, we can move on with plans, can’t we?” As Mikhail bowed politely, murmuring, “As Your Majesty wishes,” Aleksander stood at the front of the dais, and waved his hands for silence. The musicians dwindled to a halt, as did the dancers. Phillip, the Emperor, having finally managed to find time to dance with his fiancée, Christiana, looked somewhat surprised at the interruption, but waved politely at Aleksander to continue.

“I apologize, my friends, for interrupting your festivities; but I have an announcement to make which gives me great pleasure.” Elegant and urbane, he turned to his son. “My son, Mikhail, has returned to us to fulfill the duties of his house. It seems only fitting that as we gather to celebrate this time of new beginnings … for our new Emperor,” he bowed to Phillip, who returned the courtesy. “And his lovely bride-to-be.” Aleksander bowed again, to a blushing Christiana; waiting for a small ripple of applause to die away. “It seems only fitting to announce another new beginning, for the House of Dhorani.”

A cold dread began to fill Mikhail’s stomach and his eyes searched the room frantically seeking Jenevra. Hazel eyes met blue as Alexander turned and held out his hand to a young woman standing behind King Corros of Diruthia. Understanding, too late, what his father planned to do, Mikhail’s eyes were pleading with Jenevra, whose eyes were widening in belated realization.

“I am delighted to announce the union of our Kingdoms through the marriage of Princess Artela of Diruthia, to my son, and heir, Prince Mikhail.”

As King Corros stood and placed his daughter’s hand into Mikhail’s to enthusiastic applause, the Prince had to force himself to tear his gaze away from the young woman he had just realized he was in love with. Artela, an uninteresting, somewhat plain girl, beamed delightedly at her good luck, blushing bright red as Mikhail planted a brief kiss on her mouth. Mikhail and Artela were besieged by well-wishers, and he lost all sight of Jenevra.

Mikyle appeared beside Jenevra. “Come on,” he said, startling her by taking hold of her hand and pulling her out onto the terrace. “I’m just guessing, of course, but I don’t think you wanted to go congratulate the happy couple just yet.” He led her to the steps leading down to the garden. Jenevra smiled ruefully, walking with him to where Richard was leaning watching her, with Blaise Tessier.

“King Aleksander just announced Mikhail’s betrothal,” Mikyle informed them before they could say anything, a note of warning in his tone. “To Artela of Diruthia.”

Richard said nothing but lifted his sister easily, sitting her up on the balustrade; one arm lightly around the back of her waist. A small sigh escaped her as she leaned against him. “I didn’t know who he was when we were on the Island. He’s just Misha,” she explained quietly. “And I certainly didn’t expect to see him again after I left to come home. I thought he was just a friend.”

“Apparently he’s not even that.” Blaise’s tone was cynical.

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.” Jenevra glared at him.

“Really? I thought you were just being shy about it.” Tessier shot back.

Richard was just about to intervene when Phillip and Christiana appeared. Hand in hand they joined the group; Christiana frowning disapprovingly at Jenevra sitting swinging her feet in mid-air on the balustrade.

Drowning out any further attempts at conversation the night sky was torn apart as a huge firework display began; lighting up the evening with billowing clouds of sparkling light, flashes, bangs; lightning bright explosions celebrating the new Emperor’s ascension to the Imperial throne.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

In the early hours of the morning, as the entire Imperial household lay still sleeping, Jenevra pulled on her usual gray clothing and slipped out of her rooms. Not bothering to ride today, she took off on foot, needing the exercise to keep her thoughts from dwelling on the feelings she had been trying to ignore since last night. Running easily, long strides loping towards the forest; keeping the pace steady she ran through the forest for several miles, going along rather than up the hillside this time. The air was cool and slightly musty amongst the trees, palely dawning light filtering down between the branches; dappling the ground through the broad leaves. The smell was thicker than the bamboo groves on the island which had always smelled sweet even early in the day, but it was still comforting; reminding Jenevra of the place she had called home for five years. Five years with Misha. Pulling to a halt with one hand resting lightly on the bole of a tree, she pushed the thought away. Misha … Mikhail, she reminded herself, was a prince. He had to marry according to his family’s wishes; she knew that as well as he did. It was the mantra every child of any noble family grew up with; marry for the family honor, never for love. Tucking damp strands of hair back behind her ears, she set off again; feet padding soundlessly on the deep leaf litter on the forest floor.

Love? She’d never thought of love on the Island. She had trained with Misha; lived, eaten, slept alongside him for the years she’d been there, with no thought of any bond other than that of the friendship and loyalty the members of the Order owed each other. So why was last night so hard to think about? She had never expected to see Misha again. Why should she care that he was marrying someone else? Focusing on running, she picked up the pace, trying to push herself hard enough to drive out any extraneous thoughts. Mile after mile passed steadily until she emerged from the dark forest, on to a broad cliff top overhanging a thundering waterfall. Breathing deeply, she stood looking at the pounding waters, their mist rising to cover her in a damp, cool spray. Hands on hips, she took control of her breathing, enjoying the refreshing coldness and smiling at the almost luminous mists appearing in front of her.

Stretching out warm muscles, Jenevra swung her arms, moving towards the edge of the cliff. Sitting on the very edge of the slick, dark rock, feet dangling in the air, she gazed at the boiling waters below until the roaring sound became almost hypnotic, blocking out everything else, including thought. The dull tingling sensation that was almost constantly inside her became one with the pounding of the cascading waters. White noise and mist surrounding her like a cocoon in time and space, she closed her eyes and just let the sensation fill her whole body: like being suspended in nothingness.

When she opened her eyes again, the cool mist was still encompassing her, and it was a moment before she noticed the figure sitting motionless beside her.

“I’m sorry,” Misha said, not looking at her. “I had no idea my father was going to do that.”

“I know.”

“I don’t even know her.”

“I know.”

“Jenna!” Mikhail turned towards her, irritated, looking for a reaction; wanting her to be as angry as he was.

“I understand, Misha.” She reached out, touching his face with gentle fingers; letting them drop back to her side. “I understand the whole royal thing; why wouldn’t I?”

“But I don’t want to marry her, Jenna. I want to—”

She shook her head. “Don’t say it, Misha. You know it can’t happen. Don’t make it any worse than it has to be.” Rising smoothly to her feet, she wiped the spray from her face with a sleeve. “We both know what duty means. That’s why Dai-Nimh sent us both back. We have duties to perform within our families. Don’t you get it Misha? Dai-Nimh knew. He understood who we were, the families we come from. He made certain that nothing more came to us than friendship.” She made a waving motion with her hand. “Can’t we just forget about it and get down to work? I do believe a challenge was issued last night …”

Grudgingly, Misha nodded his agreement and, silently, just as they were used to doing on the Island, they fell into their training routines. Simple moves followed by increasingly complex forms kept them occupied, each keeping pace with the other, working so closely in harmony their hearts beat to the same rhythm.

“So why did he link us with the talismans?” Misha asked when they broke, drinking icy water from one of the streamlets that fell alongside the waterfall. It was a simple question; but one that Jenevra didn’t want to think about. She walked back towards the forest looking troubled. “We’re linked, Jenna. You can’t deny it.” He strode over to her and lifted the talisman on its chain around her neck in his hand, causing a sudden flash of pain within her. Then he felt around his own neck, lifting an identical pendant in his other hand. “Why did he link us with these if we’re not meant to be together? Be honest, Jenna, you feel it too. You know there could be more between us if you let it.”

Strangely wary of her most trusted friend as the talisman sent forth its danger tone again—and puzzled by it—Jenevra made to move back, but Misha still had tight hold of the talisman around her neck. “Misha, let go! We’re both royal. It’s as simple as that. We both have positions that can be of use to the Order. You know as well as I do, our wishes don’t count. Last night you were telling me that Ki-Nimh told you to remind me about that, in case I’d forgotten. In case I wasn’t following my orders. You can’t change your mind about it now. We’re under the same vows.” She placed a hand over his to take his fingers from the talisman, but he grabbed hold of her hand, pulling her closer still to him. Heart racing, she looked into his eyes; the hazel reflecting the green of the forest around them.

“I can’t do it Jenna. I can’t marry Artela. I don’t love her. I love—”

“No! No, Misha!”

Misha still had her talisman in his fist, preventing her from moving. The chain was starting to cut into the back of her neck as Misha, suddenly reckless, lowered his mouth onto hers hungrily, ignoring her muffled protests.

Torn between wanting this desperately and knowing it could only cause trouble for both of them, Jenevra drew deeply on her training. Bringing her mind to a calm place, she focused all her energy into freeing a hand to push him away slightly. Scarcely pausing, she drew the hand back and slammed it full force, heel first into the dead center of his chest. Without a sound, Misha dropped to his knees, doubled over in pain.

Jenevra backed away, watching to make sure he was still breathing. She knew it hadn’t had enough force to kill him, but she could have damaged his chest. Rubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand, she knew a certain disappointment that her first kiss had been under these circumstances. It wasn’t Misha kissing her that she objected to just the manner in which he’d gone about it … and she could see in his face that he knew that too. “I’m going back. Will you be alright?”

Nodding slowly he looked up at her, pain etched in his face. “I will be,” he whispered. “I’m sorry Jenna. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.” She tucked the talisman back inside her tunic.

Running back to the Palace her mind went over the situation again and again; puzzling over Misha’s actions. He knew there could never be anything between them as long as they belonged to the Order; and on the Island there had never been any connection of that kind between them, just solid trust between friends. Yet, suddenly he seemed willing to jeopardize everything. It simply didn’t make sense.

The twenty three members of the Shadow flight would have been very interested in the exchange on the cliff top. It might have explained to them why their young leader drilled them all afternoon, after a good long morning run; until they were all ready to drop, vomit or both. But there was a look in their Captain’s eyes today that they weren’t quite brave enough to question; not even Will Theiss was stupid enough to cross her today. She matched them stroke for stroke with the sword; end for end on the archery field. She ran with them, rode with them and drilled with them, marching around constantly monitoring them, correcting, even encouraging; but not with the playfulness they had seen before. This was a different Captain, darkly purposeful; one to be obeyed without question. As they formed up to march off the practice field, Jenevra called Brogan over. “See they get a good dinner, and double the beer allocation for tonight. I know I was hard on them today.”

Brogan saluted sharply. “Permission to speak, Captain? The men will be fine.” He cleared his throat, looking somewhat apologetic. “But … if I may make an observation … you need to tend to that graze around your neck.”

Jenevra’s hand reached up to where the talisman had bitten deep into the skin. Appreciating the concern, she smiled slightly and nodded again.

“Captain? The lads said if they find who did that, they’ll kill them.” Brogan said it very matter-of-factly, staring over her shoulder.

She laughed softly. “Sergeant, you can thank them from me, but tell them that if I wanted someone dead, I’d take care of it myself.”

Feeling emptied through exercise, Jenevra wandered back to her rooms. It seemed like an eternity since she had left that morning. Opening the door, she found her maids in a state of near panic, not knowing where the princess had gone, and fending off questions from the rest of the Imperial family all day.

“Why didn’t anyone think to look on the practice field, where the Flight was?” Jenevra puzzled.

“But, Your Highness wasn’t there this morning,” Anna said. “We did check.”

“Yes … true … sorry,” Jenevra peeled off the tunic she’d worn all day. Sniffing at it, wrinkling her nose slightly, even she had to admit that a bath and change of clothes were in order. “The green velvet will be good for now, please, Anna” she said, sliding into a huge tub full of hot water and sinking up to her chin in it. Lying back, she soaked away much of the tension of the last day or so; loosening her hair from the complicated braid she’d worn it in yesterday; letting it fan out in the water behind her.

Half an hour later found her sitting in front of the fire brushing her hair through, as Christiana arrived. “You’re here then. Good. Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you.” She sat down opposite Jenevra. “Just bathing now?”

“Not ‘just now’, Chris; I’ve been out all day. I needed a bath … now.”

“Fine, well, Aunt Serena has been going crazy waiting for you. Apparently you still haven’t tried on your gown for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Oh, yes, tomorrow.” Christiana’s face hurried Jenevra’s memory. “Well, it’ll be fine, Chris. Honestly, Aunt Serena made the seamstresses take so many measurements I think they could outfit me for a year without my being here. The dress will be fine.” She waved the brush vaguely in the air.

“Jenn! This is my wedding we’re talking about. I don’t want you to be ‘fine’. I want you to be perfect.”

“No-one will be looking at me, Chris. Everyone’s eyes will be on you. What does my dress matter?” Jenevra went back to brushing her hair again as Anna silently placed a pitcher of water, a carafe of Christiana’s favorite wine, and goblets, on a small table next to the girls.

Lips pursed, and a slight frown marring her otherwise flawless face, Christiana poured a large drink and leaned back comfortably. “You have such great hair, Jenn,” she sighed enviously.

Jenevra’s mouth hung open. “What?” She regarded the golden cloud floating around her sister; waving her hand towards it. “With that hair?”

Christiana toyed with a long tress of spun gold, wrinkling her nose at it. “I know. Everyone loves it.” She flicked the lock back over her shoulder. “But yours … it’s like its alive. You’ve got so many different colors in it.”

“It’s brown, Chris … brown hair. How on earth can you get excited about it?” Jenevra was convinced that the stress of the upcoming marriage had finally addled her sister’s grip on reality.

“It’s not just brown! Are you crazy, Jenn? It’s got red and gold running all through it. Deep amber, honey, even black: it’s incredible hair.”

Standing to pour a goblet of water, Jenevra shook her head sadly at her beautiful sister. “You’ve totally lost it, Chris. This wedding has finally unhinged you.”

“Speaking of unhinged,” Christiana turned mock serious. “You didn’t look too good last night when Aleksander announced his son’s marriage.”

“I was fine.”

“You didn’t look fine. You looked shaken. Do you know Mikhail? I mean—”

“Look,” Jenevra cut her off impatiently. “I’ve already had this conversation with your twin, Mikyle Manvi and Captain Tessier, thank you. I don’t know why you’re all suddenly so interested in me.”

“Oh,” Christiana twirled the stem of her goblet in her hands, delicately. “So …?”

Jenevra sighed heavily. “So, nothing. Yes, I know Mikhail. No, there’s nothing between us.” The deep patches of red appearing on her cheekbones suggested that this was a lie, but Christiana was still treading carefully around her baby sister’s feelings, and let it pass without comment. “I’ve known him since the Island. I didn’t know he was a prince, and I certainly didn’t expect to see him here. Does that cover it?” She flopped back onto the long padded bench, tucking her feet up cross-legged. It was the truth, as far as it went, but it was all she was going to give her.

“Well, it sort of covers Mikhail … for now. We may come back to that later.” She gave her younger sister a very direct look. “What about Blaise Tessier?”

“What?” Jenevra frowned at her sister. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Christiana dripped sarcasm. “You think you’re the first one to be beguiled by him?”

“Beguiled?” Jenevra objected. “Me? I don’t think so.” Jenevra took a long drink of water, avoiding her sister’s stare.

“Jenn?” Christiana’s voice was soft, gentle even, as she leaned forward again. “Jenn, you don’t know much about men … not about men and women anyway”

“This is true,” Jenevra conceded ruefully, thinking about Misha’s kiss.

“If you’re going to fall in love with someone for the first time, don’t let it be Tessier. He’ll break your heart. He breaks everyone’s heart.”

“Yours?” Jenevra teased.

“Oh, mine, Lennia’s, Aunt Serena’s … even Aunt Neilla has been known to get a little misty over Captain Tessier. Most of the female population of this palace has fancied themselves in love with him at one time or another … and you’ll notice he never stays with anyone.”

“But how can he fool you all?” Jenevra spread her hands, plaintively. “He’s rude and offensive, arrogant, vain. It’s not like he’s the best looking man at court. He doesn’t have anything remarkable about him really. He’s just … sort of … well; he’s bloody annoying for the most part”

“And sexy? Dangerous? Funny? Intense? Take your pick.” Christiana offered. “He just makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the room when he looks at you … as though no-one else could be as gorgeous as you are at that moment.” She stopped, a faint pink tinge coloring her own cheeks. “Yes, well, I’m sure you’ve noticed for yourself. All I’m saying Jenn is don’t get too caught up with Tessier.”

Jenevra smiled at her sister. “Thanks. I don’t think it’s a problem, Chris. After all, I am the definition of the phrase “runt of the litter” to him. I’m simply not his type—all the gods be thanked—he’s made that transparently clear to anyone who’ll listen. He’s only ever interested in you sophisticated women at court anyway, so I reckon I’m pretty safe.” She grinned as she saw Christiana shaking her head in despair.

“Too late for you, little sister. I think you’re going to learn about Blaise Tessier the hard way. I just wish you’d gone through all this when you were fifteen; it’s so much easier then.”

“Don’t worry about me, Chris. You’ll be surprised how well I can take care of myself. You just focus on Phillip; that should be enough to keep you occupied. Does he know about this obsession you have for Tessier, anyway?”

She ducked the cushion Christiana threw at her.

The Couressime sisters talked until nightfall. It was the first time they had both been old enough to have an adult level conversation that wasn’t just an argument about Jenevra’s behavior; and they found they quite enjoyed each other’s company. Jenevra was relieved to discover that Christiana wasn’t quite as empty-headed as she’d always seemed. Being disgustingly pretty had made her create a persona that people expected her to be, which Christiana had actually found quite useful over the years. Her devotion to Phillip was unquestioned by anyone in the Imperial household, but it was only tonight that Jenevra saw how deeply genuine that love was, and wondered, rather doubtfully, if she would ever feel that way about any man.

Christiana, on the other hand, had never realized just how truly unconcerned Jenevra was with how she looked. She had also never known how Jenevra saw herself as a pale shadow compared to Christiana—Serena had chosen to share that tidbit with her earlier. Having been beautiful and admired as such since earliest childhood, Christiana couldn’t imagine how any pretty woman could not be aware of her own charms, but Jenevra all too obviously wasn’t. Tessier’s remarks about Jenevra’s appearance had only reinforced what Jenevra herself already believed.

As night fell, final preparations for the second Coronation Ball were taking place. Servants scurried about lighting huge pyramids of candles throughout the Palace, and guests began congregating in the huge throne room again. Jenevra was just relieved that it wasn’t another formal dinner. The Lord Chamberlain had merely crammed the smaller audience hall with long tables, groaning under the weight of food, where guests could help themselves as they wished.

After lighting the candles in Jenevra’s rooms, Anna, her maid, carried in another new gown; shimmering pewter colored silk cut in the same softer style as the green velvet gown. Quickly, she slipped into it, feeling far more comfortable than she had at the last two formal events.

Christiana’s maids had also arrived in Jenevra’s rooms, bearing everything they needed to make their Lady fit for the Emperor. A stunning gown of aquamarine satin, hugged every curve tightly. Phillip had sent her a complete set of jewelry for the occasion: sapphire and diamonds in a necklace and bracelets, which sparkled like small fires around her neck and wrists. A matching tiara crowned the glorious golden hair.

Jenevra let out a long low whistle. “Wow, Chris. That looks amazing. Phil should be speechless.”

Christiana twirled in front of the long mirror Serena had insisted be placed in Jenevra’s room. Smiling smugly, she had to agree with her sister. Critically, she looked at the gown Jenevra was dressed in and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“I like it.” Jenevra clenched her jaw obstinately.

Christiana gave up. “Well, let’s just make the best of it then.” She turned Jenevra around again and re-laced the sides of the gown, much tighter than they had been. “That’s a little better,” she noted. “At least it’s not just hanging on you now.” She pulled the shoulders down some, exposing more of Jenevra’s neck and chest. Christiana sent another maid running back to her rooms to fetch the finishing touch, two long silver chains studded with large diamonds. One she looped several times and placed around Jenevra’s neck; the other was also looped and then pinned in place around Jenevra’s head like a coronet.

Christiana stood back. “Not perfect, but at least you’re not an absolute disaster.”

“Thanks for the affirmation, O gorgeous one!”

“You know, you’re not getting away with this tomorrow, Jenn.” Christiana called over her shoulder as they headed to the ball. “I helped Serena choose your gown, and you will wear it. Tomorrow you will stand out, like it or not.”

The evening didn’t go too badly. Christiana had given Jenevra some very wise advice as to how to avoid any serious confrontations. “Just keep dancing.” She had told her. “No-one expects you to talk when you’re dancing, and you can always find a point to spin off if the conversation turns tricky. And you can pick your partners; that’s always handy if you’re trying to avoid someone, you just tell them you promised someone else that dance, and disappear.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jenevra was amazed at how simply Christiana had laid out the strategy; and was doubly impressed when she managed to put it into action herself, and spent most of the evening hopping around the ballroom on the arm of one noble or another; managing to catch Phillip, Stephan and Richard for dances. Even Mikyle Manvi had accompanied her for several, as had Conall of Lorthia and his larger-than-life brother, Baran.

Mikhail had danced most of the evening with his betrothed, Artela, who was still beaming radiantly with happiness. On the one occasion he had managed to dance anywhere near Jenevra she had studiously avoided making eye contact with him; changing directions whenever he looked as though he might come close enough to talk.

Jenevra could see that Princess Artela had noticed his trying to attract her attention; and the hurt welling in the other girl’s eyes. Artela was fairly plain; homely was Serena’s word. Having spent much of her life feeling “homely” next to Christiana’s beauty, Jenevra really felt for Artela. Although Jenevra didn’t feel pretty, she really didn’t care too much; but she could see that Artela did, especially when her future husband was so obviously trying to catch another woman’s attention. As that dance ended, Artela fled the ballroom, looking for somewhere to be alone. Avoiding Misha, Jenevra followed her to a small terrace overlooking the practice field where Jenevra drilled with the Shadow Flight. Artela was gazing blindly into the dark courtyard.

“Princess?” Jenevra stepped out onto the terrace quietly, the gray gown rendering her almost invisible amongst the shadows.

Artela looked around in panic. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and find Jenevra in the gloom. Recognizing the Imperial Princess, Artela sank into a deep curtsey. “Your Imperial Highness.”

“Get up, Artela,” Jenevra grasped her arm gently. “I think we need to talk.”

Artela’s head hung. “There’s really nothing to talk about, Your Highness. He’s in love with you, not me. I will break the engagement.”

“What?” Jenevra was never patient with people who just gave up. “Artela, that’s not why I came after you.” She took a deep breath. Explaining again how she and Misha didn’t love each other was strangely painful. “Mikhail and I have known each other for a while. There has never been anything romantic between us, and I don’t expect that to change.”

Artela’s head came up slowly and, even in the darkness of the terrace, Jenevra could see hope mingled with disbelief. “Then why doesn’t he take his eyes off you, Your Highness?” Bitterness edged Artela’s voice. “Why has he spent this entire evening trying to move us closer to you on the dance floor? I’m not stupid, you know!” Anger made her bolder. “They all think I’m stupid. My father doesn’t ask my opinion about who I marry, just announces it, and I’m just supposed to go along, agreeing with it all. Poor, stupid, ugly Artela … she’s so lucky anyone wants her … even if it is only for political reasons.”

If she hadn’t seen how little Artela thought of herself, Jenevra would have been astounded at this outburst. As it was, she laughed quietly.

“Oh, that’s right. Go ahead and laugh Princess. You have everything … including the heart of the man I’m supposed to marry. What would you care?”

“Artela … that’s not it at all,” Jenevra sighed. “Listen to me carefully. I’m not going to repeat myself on this again for anyone else. There is nothing—get it—nothing between Mikhail and I, except friendship. The only reason he’s been looking for me tonight is that we had a pretty bad argument earlier today, and he’s trying to apologize. I’m just being awkward and making it difficult for him to do that by avoiding him.” She turned and leaned against the cold stone wall behind her. “Even if Mikhail wanted me, I don’t have an option of choosing him. Remember, just like you, when I marry, I go where the family needs me to go. Although I have to tell you, I have no plans to marry anyone any time soon.”

“Really?” Artela questioned artlessly. “Won’t it be announced tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night? What’s tomorrow night got to do with anything?”

“Isn’t it traditional?” Artela said. “Doesn’t the Emperor announce the marriages of all eligible members of the Imperial family on his own wedding night?”

Jenevra’s hands clutched at the wall behind her as she strove to keep her voice from shaking. Thankful for Artela’s choice of hiding place where the dark shadows hid her own face, she answered confidently. “I don’t think Phillip intends to keep all those mindless old traditions, Artela. He’s already dispensing with a few old customs, and bringing back some others that have been out of favor for a while.” She forced a light laugh. “Anyway, I think he’s going to be too busy with my sister to worry about marrying the rest of us off.”

With a forced effort at girlish camaraderie, Jenevra took Artela’s arm and pulled the other Princess back into the Palace with her. Depositing Artela back with her family, the princess marched over to Christiana and Phillip who were talking with Arrilia Neilla and King Corros of Diruthia. As she drew nearer, her headache grew again, piercing darts of pain flashed colors through her vision. Blinking to clear her sight, Jenevra saw that Phillip had noticed. Vaguely aware of his asking her if she needed to go outside, she reached out for his arm; the aura lifting slightly as they left the ballroom for the quiet terrace.

“You look terrible,” Phillip said bluntly. “Are you sure you can go through with this, Jenn? I mean, if it’s going to affect you this badly…”

“I’ll be fine.” Jenevra waved a dismissive hand, leaning against the cold stone wall. Rubbing a hand over her face, she gave him a pale smile. “I’m starting to recognize what’s happening with it now. It’s a warning. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to control it soon. Anyway,” she changed her tone. “That’s not why I was looking for you.” Jenevra poked a finger into Phillip’s chest. “What makes me mad is that you agreed to the Imperial Protector idea, knowing you’d pull it out from under me. That really stinks! I never expected that from you.”

Puzzled, but realizing that Jenevra was serious, Phillip looked around them. “Let’s walk, Jenn,” he led her down the steps and out into the elaborate formal gardens, where there were fewer people to overhear them. “You have my full attention now, dear cousin. Take it slowly, and explain exactly what it is you think I’m doing to you.” As she related the small conversation she’d had with Artela, he looked thoughtful. “So, you think I have a marriage ready to spring on you tomorrow?”

A sideways glance from Jenevra confirmed it as they paced along together.

“Several things aren’t right here,” he announced.

Jenevra looked at him questioningly, but remained silent.

“One,” he counted off on his fingers. “Artela thinks it’s happening. That means she’s at least heard someone talking about it. Someone we don’t know about … yet; but there can’t be too many contenders.” The flickering light of the torches lining the pathways threw shadows across his suddenly grim face. “Two … strangely, none of my Council has mentioned this “tradition” to me. In a group hardly renowned for their reticence at telling me what I should be doing, that is unusual enough to be suspect in itself. And three, there is no marriage. Good God, why would I inflict that on anyone!” Phillip was coldly angry, giving Jenevra a glimpse of the Emperor about to make his presence felt in the Empire. “Someone is trying to manipulate me, Jenn, and I don’t like that. Someone thinks I won’t be strong enough yet to turn this around.”

“Menzetti?” Jenevra asked quietly.

Phillip looked at her quizzically. “What makes you say that? I agree, but what makes you think it’s him?”

“One … he detests me. Always has done; always will do. It’s mutual anyway. Two … he hasn’t made any real objection to me as Imperial Protector, has he?” She glanced at Phillip for confirmation. “That’s definitely unusual. And three … he’d do anything to get me out of his way in the Palace; somewhere I can’t annoy him. Married off would suit the Chancellor’s purposes.”

Phillip’s dark head had been nodding agreement all through this. “Yes, during the Council meeting when he actually supported your being Imperial Protector, he said it would be good to keep you occupied “until” you were married. It looks like he’s planning to spring this on both of us tomorrow night … in public.” Phillip’s eyes had narrowed dangerously. “I can’t believe he’s sat in Council with me every day for almost a year now, and he still thinks he can use me as a puppet.”

“Which he would have done without Artela spilling the beans,” Jenevra reminded him. “So, what do we do? How do we spoil the Chancellor’s plan?”

“I’m not sure yet. We also have the added complication of placating whoever he’s promised you to!” Phillip smiled grimly as Jenevra’s mouth opened in indignation.

“Why can’t I just not be there?”

“Not be where?”

“At the ball, or wherever it is we’re supposed to be when you’re announcing this.”

Phillip considered it. “No, I had planned to use the evening ball to present you as Imperial Protector. I thought you could stand behind me looking officially menacing for the evening.” He grinned.

“You don’t think things through much, do you?” Jenevra looked mildly amused. “It’s your wedding, Phil. Chris is going to want to dance all night to show you off. You want me creeping around behind you? That should cause a stir.”

“Fair point. But I still want to install you as Protector tomorrow night.” He chewed on his thumbnail as he thought again. “What about a crisis?”

“This is a crisis! I’m not marrying anyone!”

“No, a real one. Well, not real, as such … could we create a crisis that my new Imperial Protector would have to leave to deal with?”

Jenevra screwed her face up doubtfully.

“It doesn’t have to be a genuine crisis,” Phillip repeated. “We could receive rumor of a threat and you can do a dramatic impersonation of a newly appointed Imperial Commander, demanding this as your first task to prove yourself for your Emperor.” He was animated now; this was sounding almost plausible.

“Well, everyone knows it’s the sort of stupid thing I would do, so there’ll be no problem convincing anyone there.”

“That’s true.” Phillip conceded. “Let’s do it then. Can you get one of your Flight to arrive with an urgent message during the evening? It’s probably better to keep it between as few of us as possible to stop anyone else suspecting anything.”

Jenevra nodded. “No problem there. What will you do about Menzetti?”

“Nothing.” Phillip said shortly. “As long as he thinks we haven’t become wise to his machinations, we still have the upper hand. Let’s get through this before we plan anything more permanent.”

“Phil?” Jenevra sounded hesitant. “Do you think your mother knows about this?”

“I hope not. Christiana better not be involved either.” Phillip’s jaw tightened as he considered the implications. “We’ll find out tomorrow, I guess.” He offered his cousin his arm. “If we’re agreed about this I’ll leave the details to you. You have more freedom than I do now.”

“Ahh … poor Emperor,” Jenevra consoled. “On the bright side, you get to order all the beheadings!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The day of Christiana and Phillip’s wedding arrived. A beautiful spring morning greeted the inhabitants of the Imperial Palace; pale, cool and clear with that overlay of almost transparent color that hints at the promises of summer’s glory.

When Jenevra dismissed the Shadow Flight from their morning’s training run, she lingered for some time with Brogan. He had been quick to understand what she was asking him to do. “No-one else is to know, Brogan. Not even Bernardo.” Jenevra was coldly serious. “We’re unraveling a potentially treasonous plot against the Emperor here. This is how he wants us to proceed. Just the Emperor, you and I know about this.” She looked Brogan coolly in the eye. “The Flight must have everything ready for a swift departure, without actually knowing they’re going to do it.” She paused, thoughtfully. “Actually, that’s how we should be at all times; prepared to go into immediate action. Maybe that’s how you can get them ready. Explain that as the Shadow Flight will be officially invested tonight, we will be on guard immediately; this is the start of how we will continue.”

Brogan nodded. Rubbing a hand through his graying beard he thought out loud. “Will you require us to escort you in tonight, Captain? Like an Honor Guard, to present the Flight to the Emperor.”

Looking around the practice field where they were standing, Jenevra’s eyes ranged across the area; taking in other groups of Imperial guards working out, training. “I think having you all with me might be too much. Maybe just a small group, an honor guard like you said.” She flashed Brogan a dark look. “Just make sure Theiss isn’t part of it. And if D’Agostino’s involved, have a word with him first.”

Sergeant Brogan grinned, saluted sharply, and marched away briskly to put the Shadow Flight on active status.

Jenevra wandered across the field towards the barns, pausing briefly on her way to watch a group of archers from Raik’s Border Patrol at target practice. Coming first to the gray horse she’d ridden from Frann, she stopped for a moment, rubbing the velvety nose, talking quietly to him. He nudged gently at her, looking for a treat. “Nothing here, boy,” she murmured. “I’ll bring you something later.”

She turned, hearing footsteps coming in to the stables. It was the young man she had hoped to find.

“Your Highness,” he bowed awkwardly, arms full of hay.

Jenevra looked at him, pensively. “What’s your name?”

“Laio, Your Highness.”

“How old are you, Laio?”

“I’m seventeen, Your Highness. Almost eighteen, though.”

Jenevra considered. “Do you have many duties here in the stables, Laio?”

“Just the same as all the other stable boys, Your Highness: cleaning out the horses, putting fresh hay, feed and water in; the usual things.”

“You like horses?” She smiled gently at his vigorous nod. “What if I asked the Master of Horse if you could be the new groom for my Imperial Flight, Laio? Do you think you could handle it? It would be a lot of work, at least eighty horses. Not that many yet, but eventually.”

Laio’s eyes were shining with excitement, but he thought about his answer. “Your Highness, I would be honored to look after your horses, but it would need more than just me. I’m sure the Master of Horse would know someone better to be in charge.”

Jenevra also knew the Master of Horse, and knew that he would place someone in her Flight who would report everything she did to him. He wasn’t really a political creature; he just owed his own position to the Chancellor and reported everyone’s comings and goings as a matter of course. She shook her head at Laio. “I don’t want someone else looking after the Flight’s horses, Laio. I want you. I’ll talk to Master Alvaro and tell him. I want you to pick two or three friends you can trust … and I mean really trust, Laio. If I find anyone reporting my Flight’s actions to anyone other than me, I will consider it treason, and so will the Emperor. Is that clear?”

Laio’s smile was almost bright enough to light up the dark interior of the stable. “Yes, Your Highness. I have two friends I can count on here.”

“Good,” Jenevra began to move out of the stable, rubbing the gray’s nose one more time. “Are all of my Flight’s horses stabled in here right now, Laio?”

“No, Your Highness. Most of them are, but I know some of the horses from Captain Pichot’s Flight are still in that barn.”

Jenevra smiled. “I’m going to talk to Master Alvaro about transferring you to my service, Laio. You find your friends, and make this place ready for some new arrivals. Remember, my Flight has to be ready to leave at any time. Day or night, if I send to you, our horses and equipment need to be ready and waiting.” Laio nodded eagerly. “Laio, consider yourself Chief Groom of the Shadow Flight.”

As Laio whooped happily and dashed off to find his friends, Jenevra walked swiftly to find Master Alvaro, Master of Horse. A small man, Jenevra knew his size was totally deceptive: he possessed great strength in his wiry frame. She had seen him control huge horses that some of the largest men she knew couldn’t handle; he was not a man to be underestimated.

Although he was in essence the Chancellor’s man, Alvaro had always respected the Imperial Family, mainly because of their respect for horses. Invariably treating the charges in his stables with more concern than he did the men working for him, Alvaro would look considerately on anyone whose love for horses was genuine. It was one of the reasons he liked Jenevra. Even as a small child she had loved horses, and had been good with them. That made Jenevra’s task a little easier as she explained why she wanted Laio for her Flight. “He’s good, Master Alvaro. He’s a natural with them as far as I can see. I’ve seen him with my horse, and I like the way he handles him.”

“Aye,” Alvaro agreed; head down as he examined a horse’s leg in front of him. “The boy is a natural, as you say.”

“Laio’s young enough that I know I’m not taking one of your more experienced men away from you; he can grow into the position.”

Looking up from the hoof he’d been checking, Master Alvaro squinted at the Imperial Princess. “He’s very inexperienced for all that, Highness.” His voice was dry and quiet, the voice of a man who spent much of his life soothing animals with gentleness. “Are you sure you don’t want one of the more senior grooms?”

“No, thanks; I really think young Laio will be the right choice. I trust him. He knows to come to you if there’s anything beyond his knowledge.” She smiled reassuringly at Alvaro. “Also, I want him to bring at least two others with him.” She held up her hand. “I’ve already told him who to bring, Master Alvaro. You have plenty of youngsters around here; you can spare me three of them. Oh, and I’ve asked him to move the remaining horses belonging to the men in my Flight into that barn. I believe they were all from Captain Pichot’s Flight?”

“Hmm. Yes. Captain Pichot. Yes, that’s a good idea, Highness.” Master Alvaro was one of the few other people Jenevra knew of who didn’t like Reiff Pichot. She remembered once, she had been watching Reiff Pichot enter the Imperial grounds by horse, and had caught a look of disgust on Master Alvaro’s face as he waited to take the horse to the stables. When she had asked Alvaro about it later he had answered her in his usual spare manner. “I don’t have time for folk who can’t treat their animals right.” They had never discussed it since, but they knew they agreed in their opinion of Reiff Pichot.

Standing upright, Master Alvaro wasn’t even as tall as Jenevra. Scratching at his head with the hoof pick, he slapped his other hand on the horse he’d just been examining.

“Consider it all taken care of, Your Highness. Laio is yours, along with two others. That barn is now the official home of the Shadow Flight.” His eyes brightened. “I take it you’ll be looking for some new horses?” He rubbed his hands together. “Matching color or specific breed?”

“You know me too well, Master Alvaro.” Jenevra grinned back at him. “What would you recommend?” They strolled around the stables discussing various qualities of different breeds of horses, happily engrossed in their mutual interest until a maid from the Palace came to interrupt them; reminding Jenevra that it was time to prepare for Christiana and Phillip’s wedding.

Stopping briefly at the armory to check on the Flight’s equipment and uniforms, Jenevra raced back to her rooms. The morning was already gone. The wedding would take place in three hours, and by the end of the night she hoped she would be out of the Palace again.

The streets of Salanova had been decked with banners, streamers and flowers once again. The people were ecstatic that they had two celebrations in one week, and they intended to make the most of it. A coronation and a royal wedding both taking place within days of each other, when most citizens had only known the one Emperor, Reiff Marissun, the deaths of his sons, his death and the stewardship of his widow. Finally, the city could truly rejoice in its position as capital of the Empire.

The glasshouses of the Palace had been pillaged once more, and spring flowers were everywhere, bright whites, yellows and greens, with splashes of blue and violet; in the trees lining the streets, hanging down from windows or spilling from large baskets. Houses trailed large banners in a multitude of colors and flags of Imperial crimson fluttered from their windows and gables. The sky was clear, punctuated by small wisps of cloud, trailing across the sky like ribbons. The air was cool, kept from coldness by the bright sunshine: a perfect day for crowds.

As the eldest male of the Couressime family, Stephan was waiting to escort Christiana to her wedding. Jenevra arrived at the Temple with Richard. Christiana had obviously conspired with Serena Massili over Jenevra’s gown for the occasion, and had even sent one of her own maids to assist with fitting Jenevra into it according to their exacting standards. As Serena and Rafael Massili arrived at the Temple, Serena even smiled at Jenevra and only made one minute adjustment to the ensemble.

Apart from the tight lacing, even Jenevra couldn’t find much to complain about with the outfit. She had even thought fleetingly that she might look quite pretty in it. Christiana had chosen a pale shade of blue for her, with just a hint of violet about it. The color suited her, bringing out her eyes, without being the vivid aquamarine that Christiana favored. Made of a fine satin, the gown had intricate embroidery all over it, in several slightly lighter and darker shades, giving an impression almost of water as the light caught the different colors. The bodice was tightly fitted and low cut, to Jenevra’s disgust; caught on the shoulders by thick soft ribbons which then streamed down the back of the gown onto the short train that flowed behind it. Her dark hair was flowing loose down her back, the front pieces pulled back and held by a diamond coronet. There was an overall impression of spring and lightness about it—an innocence: but no one was going to use that word in Jenevra’s hearing.

Richard had chosen (or had chosen for him—after all this was his twin’s wedding) a deeper blue, which looked good with his blond hair. Well fitted jacket and breeches with glossy boots drew admiring glances from many of the ladies in the Temple. Allegra Dhorani, Misha’s sister, gave him just a brief smile. “Must be waiting for Stephan,” Jenevra whispered mischievously. Richard’s lips twitched.

Chancellor Menzetti and his wife, Graea, were there too. As Jenevra nodded towards them, Graea Menzetti smiled sweetly at her. There was something about her that Jenevra was finding intriguing. The gesture she had made at the coronation; her obviously friendly manner. Jenevra made a mental note to speak to Graea Menzetti later.

Arrilia Neilla arrived with Phillip. He took his place at the front of the Temple, next to the High Priest. Always the epitome of tall, dark and handsome, Phillip was usually dressed in black. Today, dressed in white for his wedding, Jenevra thought he just looked weird. Not that it didn’t suit him; it just wasn’t the Phillip she was used to.

Thick dark hair fell straight to his shoulders; a small ruby encrusted crown sat on his head. Everything below that was white with gold threadwork, including a trailing mantle. Phillip caught Jenevra’s eye, saw her grinning at him. “Nice dress” he mouthed at her. She merely crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out.

The Lord Chamberlain had removed all the brightly colored banners from the Temple, filling it with the white and green floral arrangements instead, far more suitable for a wedding, and much less traumatic on the eyes. The trumpeters had been replaced with lutes and harps, leaving the Temple with a tranquil atmosphere. Jenevra relaxed a little, enjoying the music. If she closed her eyes, it even felt a little like the Temple in the Island; cool stone underfoot, the breezes playing around from open windows, scent of spring blossoms.

Christiana’s arrival was heralded by the new theme from the harps; cascading arpeggios accompanying her as she walked up the aisle slowly with Stephan. Stephan’s solid bulk made Christiana look less Amazonian than usual, and as always, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Her gown was made of the same pure crisp white as Phillip’s outfit, with similar gold threadwork covering the bodice and train. The symbols of the two houses, Marissun and Couressime had been worked and intertwined over the skirt of her gown in oyster thread, making it look almost brocaded. The skirt was very full, emphasizing the waist and bodice. In a totally new departure, Christiana had removed the idea of sleeves completely; leaving her arms and shoulders bare, much to the shock of many ladies in the Temple. Christiana’s hair was loose too today. Pure gold shimmering down past her hips, with only a simple circle of sapphires holding a gauzy veil in place.

The ceremony was a beautiful one. Jenevra had long thought that this was one of the Temple’s finest liturgies, with words of love and commitment that had been spoken for centuries. It helped, she thought, when you knew that the people involved were absolutely in love with each other; you knew the words meant something real to them. The final part of the ceremony was borrowed from the coronation, though, as Phillip raised Christiana to his side as his wife, then replaced her sapphire circlet with a ruby coronet, crowning her as his Empress.

Yet another formal banquet.

“You know, the sooner all this is over, the better,” Rafael Massili complained, patting his not insubstantial girth, currently straining the limits of a purple jacket. “Too much more of this without going to sea and I won’t fit any of my uniforms.”

With weddings and engagements, the order for dinner had changed, and Jenevra was escorted by the Crown Prince of Diruthia, Cieren; a young man she had only met briefly before. His sister, Artela, was Misha’s bride-to-be, although Cieren was not as plain as his sister; in fact some of the younger girls at court were quite smitten with him. Sandy hair was loose to his shoulders, with blue-green eyes set in a fair featured face; Cieren went to great pains to ensure that his appearance was as close to perfect as he could make it. His clothes were impeccably tailored in subtly complimentary colors. His mouth was thin-lipped, and yet somewhat petulant, a combination Jenevra felt strangely unsettling, but put it down to her almost predictable headache and disturbed vision. His manners were pleasant enough though, and they managed to get through the banquet civilly. Cieren was attentive, curiously interested in why she had been away from Court for so long. When he pressed her for answers she did something she rarely did— lied—telling him she had been studying at a convent in a remote part of the world. She was relieved when the usual wedding toasts and speeches made conversation difficult for a while.

As the banquet finished, Jenevra realized she had ignored Prince Cieren for rather a long time, and apologized to him; explaining that she was still a little homesick for the convent, and the ceremony had reminded her of it. He seemed to understand; bowing over her hand and excusing himself to meet with his father, King Corros.

Wandering quietly across to Christiana and Phillip, she congratulated them both warmly. “You two really do look good together,” she smiled, hugging them both. Tall and stately, blonde and dark, dressed in white and gold, they were a perfectly regal image.

“You’re looking particularly lovely yourself, little cousin,” Phillip was breezily cheerful.

“Well, I suppose you two are going to be dancing all night. Do I have to dance with you too, Phil? Tradition, you know?”

Catching the cue quickly, Phillip nodded. “I’ll find you a little later. Will you be ready?”

“Always ready. That’s my new motto as Imperial Protector.”

Christiana made a rude snorting noise.

“Excuse me … I think you’ll find I am taking this very seriously, sister dear.” Jenevra said.

“Indeed you are, Jenevra.” Phillip added pompously.

Christiana’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You two are up to something; I can feel it.”

Jenevra danced most of the evening. As Christiana had told her, it was an excellent way to avoid having to talk with people. She danced once with Phillip, during which they managed to confirm their plans for the late evening, a couple with Conall of Lorthia who was becoming fairly attentive, and several between Stephan, Richard, Rafael Massili (who moved surprisingly well for such a big man) and Cieren of Diruthia. The Imperial Captains were conspicuous by their absence, and Jenevra was a little disappointed not to see Captain Manvi: she was beginning to enjoy his friendship too, although the absences of Captains Tessier and Pichot were more than welcome.

She had spoken to Misha just once during the evening. He had come to ask her to dance, but she was already promised to a Baron’s son for that one. Reaching a hand out, he touched her arm gently, a wistful smile on his lips, but they said nothing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Half an hour before midnight, Jenevra left the celebration. Phillip wanted her back at midnight and she still had to pack, change and check on the Flight.

Rushing, she stuffed clothes and boots into a bag. With Anna’s help she removed the blue gown and began putting on her formal uniform as Captain of the Shadow Flight. Anna’s eyes were wide as she helped Jenevra squeeze into it. “I know, Anna,” Jenevra agreed. “It wouldn’t have been my choice either. But the Dowager Empress wanted it formal, traditional and distracting. That’s what she’s got.” With a quick final glance in the long mirror, Jenevra swung her swords over her shoulders, pulled her new formal mantle over them, and dashed down to meet the Flight.

The Flight was in their barracks when she arrived, making sure they were packed in preparation for anything. The instructions Brogan had relayed from the princess had been that as of midnight the Flight would be officially on duty, and that meant ready to go at any time. A pack would be kept ready at all times, with spare sets of clothing and supplies, by each member of the Flight. Brogan was busy with a final inspection of everyone’s pack as the princess arrived.

“Ready for inspection, Captain.” Brogan snapped smartly to attention, the rest of the Flight following suit swiftly.

Jenevra strode purposefully into the center of the room swathed in a long black velvet mantle covering her from neck to feet. Most of the Flight was still wearing their gray everyday uniform; an almost exact copy of the clothes Jenevra had worn on leaving the Island; practical and inconspicuous.

Six of the men were in the formal uniform of gray and silver; a brightly burnished mail shirt with an almost silvery gray tabard over it; light gray breeches with highly glossed boots. Jenevra had refused totally to have them wear helmets, on the grounds that she didn’t want their hearing distorted. The small group did not look thrilled at the prospect of a formal performance, despite being proud to have been chosen as Jenevra’s escort.

“Ready?”

Brogan nodded. “Everything’s in place, Captain. Right, line up you men!” He ordered the Honor Guard to form up. “You are representing this Flight,” he barked at them. “You are representing our Princess, our Captain. You will do so with the pride of this Flight upon you. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” The six shouted back in chorus.

Taking his place at the front, Brogan led the formation out behind their young commander.

There was a buzz in the throne room. Just before midnight, Emperor Phillip had called a halt to the dancing and moved to the throne room. He sat, waiting, with Christiana beside him on her newly placed throne. Still dressed in white, the gold and jewels sparkled in the candlelight, enhancing their regal appearance. Both wore their Imperial crowns of gold and ruby.

At midnight, Phillip stood and motioned for silence. The crowd waited for their Emperor’s announcement. King Corros of Diruthia exchanged a weighted glance with Chancellor Menzetti, and nudged his son, Cieren who looked smug.

“Esteemed guests, friends,” Phillip opened his arms towards the room in a welcoming gesture. “Many things have changed in these last few days. The Empress who guided us through darker days has entrusted her care to me. We begin on a new path together; a path that will lead us into a bright, safe future for all citizens of this Empire.” He paused to let spontaneous applause die. “My friends, we cannot cling to the past. Much as I revere the history that has made our Empire strong, there are traditions we cling to for no reason other than that they have always been there. Tradition that supports us and has purpose and reason is a good thing; but tradition that has no real purpose stifles us, holds us back from becoming even greater.” There was a ripple of applause, mainly from the younger nobles, but most people were wondering what Phillip was leading up to.

“In times past, the Empire has known strong armies and leaders. But there was also a time when the Emperor had his own personal guard, a unit primarily his to order and use for anything he saw fit. This group did not require the sanction of the Imperial Council and, at times, that caused bloody conflict within the Empire; mainly due to the over ambitious nature of the leaders.” Phillip took a deep breath, steadying himself before continuing strongly. “The Empire needs that group now; not as before, not led by ambition-driven warmongers, but led by a commander whose loyalty is unquestioned.” Taking a pace forward to the edge of the dais, Phillip signaled the guards to swing the massive bronze throne room doors open. “Tonight, I am re-creating the Imperial Protector’s Flight, henceforth to be known as the Shadow Flight.”

As the room began to buzz with whispered conversation, seven men marched into the room, Brogan in front, carrying a jeweled sword upright in front of him; the other six formed in two lines with Jenevra’s black cloaked and hooded figure walking in the midst of them.

Stopping in perfect unison before the throne, all six men dropped to one knee, heads bowed in front of their Emperor. The black cloaked figure remained standing as Brogan took a pace forward to kneel on the step of the dais. Holding the ruby hilted sword across his palms, he offered it up to Phillip. “The Spirit Sword of the Shadow Flight is yours, my Lord Emperor,” he declaimed in the ringing tones that carried across the practice fields.

Chancellor Menzetti’s eyes had narrowed at this statement. By presenting the Spirit Sword of the Flight to the Emperor they were announcing that this was truly Phillip’s unit to command: that they would answer to their Emperor and no-one else; not even to the High Commander of the Imperial War Host. Ancient custom required a Spirit Sword to be created for each new Flight. It embodied the fighting spirit of all who joined, and was held much as a talisman by the soldiers of any Flight. It was always held by the commander of the Flight; mainly for ceremonial use, although you would never find a commander on the battlefield without it strapped across his back. For the sword to be broken or lost would mean the end of the Flight. This presentation was an unforeseen complication, but Menzetti was sure he could find a way to circumvent it in time.

Excited chatter could be heard all around the room now, as Phillip held up his hand again for silence. “I accept the Spirit Sword of the Shadow Flight,” he intoned formally. “And I call upon the new Imperial Protector to accept its care as my chosen representative, and new commander of the Flight.”

Brogan stood to one side as Jenevra, still hooded and cloaked, ascended the dais to the step below Phillip.

“In keeping with ancient tradition, the Imperial Protector is a member of the Imperial family. My choice for this role was clear.” Phillip’s voice carried to all corners.

Jenevra knelt on the step below Phillip.

“Do you accept the responsibilities and duties of Imperial Protector?”

“With my honor, and my life.”

“Do you accept the commission of the Shadow Flight?”

“With my honor, and my life.”

“Do you accept the Oath of Death?”

“With my honor, and my life.”

Phillip laid the sword across Jenevra’s hands. “Then rise as my spirit in this Flight, Saphila Jenevra Couressime, Protector of the Marissime Empire.”

As a universal gasp went up in the room, Jenevra stood upright, throwing the black mantle back over her shoulders and turning to face the shocked audience. Standing proud and straight, she shimmered before them like an avenging angel. The cloak she wore had a white satin lining, draping behind her shoulders now like folded wings. A short tunic of white silk lay beneath a tightly fitting tunic of gleaming mail without neck or arms reaching to mid-thigh. Strapped over this was a white enameled breastplate, shaped to match the low cut of the tunic and mail shirt and embossed with a gold working of the Emperor’s crest. White soft boots reached to just below the knee, with matching enameled greaves around the shins; hair caught up simply by a white metal clasp at the top of her head. The pair of swords she carried on her back had been polished to gleaming perfection.

Taking her position to the right of the Imperial thrones, Jenevra rested both hands on the hilt of the Spirit Sword, placing its point on the ground. She faced the room with a clear, unwavering gaze as Brogan joined the Honor Guard, dropping to one knee in salute to their Emperor and their Commander. Every other Imperial guardsman in the throne room snapped to attention, saluting the new officer.

From the far end of the room Raik Rabenaldt, High Commander of the Imperial War Host, led his Captains forward to salute their Emperor and to greet their newest colleague. Captains Manvi, Pichot and Tessier had all been highly amused at the idea of Jenevra’s installation as Imperial Protector; right up until the Emperor had announced the full extent of the powers he was giving her. Even so, the revealing uniform wasn’t convincing them of any seriousness in the appointment, and they approached the dais with little idea of what had truly just happened. Raik Rabenaldt, on the other hand, was acutely concerned, saluting Phillip grim-faced: he had expected to be able to have some control over the princess’s wilder excesses. As he noted the rather satisfied look on his Emperor’s face, Raik realized belatedly that Phillip hadn’t been tricked into this by Jenevra; he was a more than willing partner … if not more than that.

“Your Imperial Majesty!” King Corros of Diruthia stood forward, bowing before Phillip. “As we congratulate your wisdom in re-instituting a fine old tradition, are we to assume that the tradition of announcing the marriages of all the remaining Imperial family is also being continued tonight?”

Stephan and Richard choked. They hadn’t remembered that tradition either.

Corros looked around the throne room, hands spread out in supplication. “Surely, Your Imperial Majesty will be signing the betrothals of all your cousins? I’m sure none of us would wish to see our lovely new Imperial Protector anywhere else, but tradition and duty call for her marriage.”

Phillip and Jenevra glanced at Chancellor Menzetti whose jaws were tightly clenched, but otherwise was showing no sign of stress. Turning his attention back to the swaggering King in front of him, Phillip stood forward on the edge of the dais, no trace of levity in his tone or stance. “Your Majesty, King Corros, you have heard me here pledge to sweep away pointless traditions. I require the service of my cousins at this time; their first duty is to me. They will make marriages when it suits my purposes, and not before.”

“Father!” Prince Cieren stepped forward angrily.

Corros stopped his protest with one raised hand. “My Lord Emperor.” He bowed again. He remembered seeing that same look on Reiff Marissun’s face and there was no arguing with it. Glaring pointedly at Chancellor Menzetti, the King of Diruthia stalked back to his place seething with anger that his promised alliance was not to be.

Jenevra stood behind Phillip, calm and poised; her gaze focused on the back of the room near the doors where Graea Menzetti was standing, leaning on the arm of a tall, gray-haired man whom Jenevra recognized immediately. He made the same gesture that Lady Menzetti had made, reminding Jenevra to focus on the present. Jenevra bowed her head just slightly in assent.

Suddenly another voice spoke out. “My Lord Emperor. The position of Imperial Protector is too important to have someone so untried in the position. Challenges have always been permitted, in order to ensure the best … man … for the job. I challenge the princess’s right to be Imperial Protector!”

Cries of outrage mingled with scattered applause as Mikhail Dhorani stood forward, auburn curls scraped back into a small braid, two crossed leather scabbards across his back. Eyes locked intently on Jenevra’s, he strode to the center of the room before appealing once more to Phillip. “Your Imperial Majesty, I demand the right to try for the Imperial Protectorship.”

Phillip looked troubled. Although he had heard what Raik told him about the Order, he still remained unconvinced of Jenevra’s abilities. Besides, if the information Christiana had shared with him was true, Mikhail had also trained with them, and for longer. He had the exact same skills. He looked at his cousin as if seeking an answer. It was there in a look on her face that he had never seen before, and it chilled Phillip to the bone.

Jenevra looked to the back of the room. The man with Graea Menzetti had gone, but the lady nodded her head at Jenevra, giving her another signal that commanded obedience within the Order. Puzzled, Jenevra turned to face her cousin, ignoring Christiana’s hissed admonitions. “Prince Mikhail wishes to contend for the Protectorship?”

Misha nodded.

“Does King Aleksander absolve me of any further charge against his family?” Jenevra issued the formal acceptance, requiring the family of the challenger to agree not to call for a blood debt should their challenger lose.

Aleksander nodded his silvered head; his face reflecting his anger at Mikhail’s impulsiveness.

Dropping the cloak behind her, Jenevra stepped down from the dais. Reaching the foot, she turned and bowed formally to Phillip. “My Lord Emperor?” Steely determination radiated from her as Phillip nodded formal assent and stood, arms folded, at the top of the dais.

“One challenge only. It ends here.” Phillip’s voice echoed around the chamber.

The room was hushed as Jenevra moved to face Misha: a small, slight figure facing the man in front of her.

Stephan and Richard stood by Christiana on the dais, three pairs of piercing blue eyes focused in hatred on the tall figure in the center of the floor. “You have to stop this,” Christiana whispered frantically to her brothers. “He’ll kill her.”

“No, he won’t, Chris.” Richard tried to calm her. “Phillip wouldn’t let that happen; nor would Raik. They’ll stop this before she gets hurt.”

Arrilia Neilla came to her side, holding onto her hand tightly. “You are Empress now, Christiana,” she said under her breath. “You cannot let any of them see you upset by this. You have to look as if you have every faith in Phillip’s decision … whatever your feelings might truly be. Just remember, whatever happens, accepting this Protectorship was Jenevra’s choice.” She looked her niece in the eyes gravely as Christiana began to learn one of the hardest lessons of being an Empress; squeezing Christiana’s hand as her niece raised her chin and looked straight ahead.

Raik and the Imperial Captains moved hesitantly to one side, standing on the edge of the crowded room with the seven members of the Shadow Flight; six of who were looking smug. “Five crowns on the Captain,” Gervaise D’Agostino couldn’t resist. Brogan shot him a scathing look.

Blaise Tessier leaned across to D’Agostino. “She’s that good?” He subsided thoughtfully as all six nodded seriously at him. Arms folded across his chest, he leaned against a pillar, thumb and forefinger stroking down his moustache and beard; brown eyes glowing golden in the candlelight. Watching the princess, Tessier felt a tension in his stomach that he recognized from battle, but couldn’t quite understand why it was happening now. And, he had to admit, he was intrigued by the impression she had made on the seven men next to him in the few weeks she had known them.

Jenevra looked over at the group. “Sergeant Brogan.” She called. “Take the Spirit Sword of the Shadow Flight.” She stared coldly into Misha’s eyes. “Should anything happen to me, this sword is to be delivered only to the Emperor.”

“Yes, Captain.” Brogan saluted his young commander and marched back to the side, clutching the sword tightly; determined that it would never lie in the hands of Mikhail Dhorani.

“Ready, Princess?” Misha drew his swords; his gaze steady, voice unwavering.

Bryce Baudoin burst through the doors of the throne room, causing a stir. Rushing to Jenevra, he slid landing on one knee in front of her. “Urgent news, Captain,” he gasped.

Brogan groaned softly, hands on his head. What timing! “Baudoin!” he called sharply. “Over here!”

Jenevra nodded at Baudoin to join the other Shadow Flight members, who rapidly filled him in on what was happening. “Ready Your Highness,” she said to Misha, drawing her swords with a steely hiss.

Moving in almost identical stances they began circling slowly. So many times they had done this in training on the Island, but never with metal—never in anger. They knew each other’s moves so well; knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Misha attacked first; bounding towards Jenevra so fast that several ladies in the room screamed out loud. Just as on her first day with the Flight, Jenevra simply wasn’t there when the blows landed, rolling out from under them, landing back on her feet. She let Misha attack again and again, gasps and squeals accompanying each one from around the room. Coldly focused, Jenevra moved in spinning and slashing, swords clashing as they met Misha’s.

As they fell into the rhythm of the fight, they moved in intricate patterns, swords tracing whistling paths through the air, metal ringing; they jumped, rolled, kicked and pushed each other; more like a wrestling match with swords than the formal sword play the courtiers were used to seeing. They were equally matched and several minutes passed during which there seemed to be no pause in the momentum of the fight. Breaking apart, Jenevra noted that Misha had a torn sleeve and a cut above his left eye. Taking heart from that, she hadn’t often managed to land blows on him during training, she attacked again with renewed vigor, pushing him back towards the far end of the throne room, towards the doors. She could see something in his eyes. Not the playful gleam she was used to seeing there, and certainly not fear, but something else … sadness, a lost hope … and she knew. Anger swelled anew as she realized what he was doing, and how far from their orders it was. Pushing again, she locked her swords with his, coming right up against him. “I know what you’re doing,” she grated at him. “And it won’t work. I won’t kill you.”

“You’d better,” he panted back at her. “If you lower your guard, I will kill you.”

She kicked his legs, but he was used to that maneuver and landed on his feet. Twisting his swords around hers again, he pulled her close, whispering hoarsely, “If I can’t be with you, why should I leave you for someone else?”

With an angry shout, Jenevra jumped straight into the air, kicking Misha’s head hard enough to send him to the ground. Landing and whipping round, she brought her swords down towards his unprotected head. A scream from Daneshka, Misha’s mother, was the only thing that stopped her stroke. With uncanny control the blades halted a hairsbreadth from his neck. Drawing a ragged breath, Jenevra looked up and found herself face to face with the tall gray-haired man—Ki-Nimh, her mentor. Standing straight, she met his eyes, finding a calm acceptance there. Signaling her to silence, he bent down to look after Misha, as she turned to face Phillip and the Imperial Party at the other end of the room. Striding forward, furious at the situation Misha had forced; she sheathed her swords as she bowed in front of Phillip and Christiana. “My Lord Emperor; I believe the challenge is complete.” As Phillip nodded, she took her place, to all appearances calmly, at the right side of the throne again; fingers laced tightly on the hilt of the Spirit Sword that Brogan had rushed to place in her possession again.

“Your Majesty,” Phillip addressed King Aleksander. “Your challenge was met in a fair fight. I trust your son will recover fully shortly and rejoin us for the remaining celebrations. There is no fault here. We will not speak of this again.”

Aleksander bowed deeply and left the room, following Misha’s unconscious form. Muted talk broke out around the throne room as the tension started to ebb. Many guests were staring at Jenevra in undisguised amazement.

Phillip beckoned Bryce Baudoin and the Shadow Flight to the dais. “You had news for your Captain?”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Baudoin knelt before his Emperor, awed at being addressed personally. “I bring a message for you, and for Captain Couressime.” He paused, looking up to find Phillip waiting patiently for him to continue, a slight smile on the Emperor’s face. “My Lord, there is rumor of an attack on a village near the Bortkan border with Diruthia. Outlaws maybe, we have no full report yet.” Baudoin bowed his head.

Phillip turned to Jenevra, inwardly pleased that she wouldn’t have to demand this mission to prove herself … not after the performance they had all just witnessed. “Captain Couressime,” his lips twitched. “Dear cousin; can I prevail upon you and your Flight to discover the truth of this rumored attack on our people? I feel this is a timely event for my new Imperial Flight to show its worth.”

Chancellor Menzetti stepped to Phillip’s side, bowing slightly. “Majesty,” he began in a mildly reproving tone. “Surely you cannot be thinking of sending Her Imperial Highness out after bandits? As Imperial Protector, should she not remain here, at your side?”

Phillip’s eyes met Jenevra’s in satisfaction, and a slight smile pulled his mouth. “I think not, My Lord Chancellor,” he said smoothly. “The people need to see our Imperial Protector around the Empire, knowing that my hand will reach them swiftly when needed. Maybe, in time, Shadow Flight will come to the Palace; but for now, I want them visible and mobile. My Palace Guard is quite adequate as it stands.” Dismissing the Chancellor’s objections with an airy wave, Phillip returned his attention to Jenevra. “Go and discover the truth of the situation, Captain.”

“As my Emperor commands.” Jenevra bowed and joined the Shadow Flight at the base of the steps, leading them out of the crowded room into the coolness of the hallway. Once there she quickly dismissed them to finish packing, to meet in the courtyard in half an hour. Still shimmering in her silvered mail, she strode away towards the Imperial suites, leaving behind her a group of men proud to call themselves part of her Flight. Questions hammered at her brain, but she had no time now to stop and think about them. Maybe on the journey, she thought, maybe then she could take some time just to think about what had happened. She was angry; furious at Misha for putting her in that position; angry with Chancellor Menzetti for forcing the situation with Corros; even angry with Ki-Nimh for not coming to see her, for not stopping the fight between two of his own pupils.

As the adrenaline rush of the fight faded, anger began to dissolve into a deep sadness that everything she had thought she knew was gone. Misha’s attitude to her had changed somehow, bizarrely, in just a few weeks and now she had come close to killing him; everything that had occurred in those crowded balls and banquets had only shown her how alone she was. Thoroughly irritated for giving in to these feelings Jenevra found her hands shaking and her eyes burning; although no tears fell. Blindly, she bumped into someone, shaking her head and apologizing, trying to move past them; but strong hands held her shoulders securely, gently. Blinking slightly, Blaise Tessier came into focus. She pushed past him, irritably, “What do you want, Tessier? I warn you, I’m not in the mood right now.”

Taking a pace backwards, the Captain turned to walk quietly alongside her. “You were very impressive out there, Princess. I certainly didn’t expect to see that level of swordsmanship.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Jenevra said shortly. “He was doing it deliberately.”

“What?”

“He was trying to get me to kill him. That was the point.”

Tessier glanced at the princess. “I thought you were friends?”

“Go away,” she said bitterly, anger still smoldering.

“So you’re taking your Flight out,” Tessier’s tone was conversational; he could have been asking about the weather. “They certainly seem impressed with you: they were willing to place wagers on you winning before a stroke had been made.” He saw her face tighten and tried again. “Although I have to say, Princess, you could stomp all over me wearing that outfit, and I’d let you cut my heart out!”

That worked. Jenevra stopped dead in the middle of the hallway, shoulders slumping, eyes closing momentarily. Turning towards him she lifted her hands, “Captain, what are you doing?” Her eyes were almost black in the dimly lit hallway.

Moving closer, Tessier’s fingers brushed softly against her cheek as he gently pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face.

Startled at his cool touch against her skin, Jenevra backed away, into shadow. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? We’re colleagues, Captain,” she reminded him. “That’s hardly appropriate.”

“Really?” Cynicism tinged Blaise’s voice as he folded his arms. “And I suppose there’s never been anything inappropriate between you and your ‘colleague’ Dhorani? Did you just call it training?”

“How dare you? Unlike you, Captain Tessier, Prince Mikhail knows how to control himself.” Jenevra’s voice shook with the lie.

“Ah,” Blaise stroked his moustache, knowingly. “So that’s why you’re so angry? Poor little Princess … never been kissed.”

“I have!”

“But not properly.” Captain Tessier exulted inwardly at the confusion apparent in the princess’s face. Manipulating women was his specialty, and it was starting to look as though Jenevra would be no exception.

Remembering her experience with Misha by the waterfall, Jenevra felt a sadness rise up inside her, choking her voice slightly as she added, “Not that it’s any of your business, but not everyone finds me quite as repulsive as you do.” Barging past him to leave, Jenevra looked directly into his eyes as he caught her arm. “Let go,” she warned softly.

Tessier could sense the tension in her, and the expression in her eyes—something between sorrow and loss—caught at him. Holding her gaze for a moment, he nodded, and loosened his grip.

The princess walked quickly away, hesitating as he called her name again. “Captain?” Jenevra fidgeted with her sword and cloak; looking at the floor, and chewing slightly on her lip.

“I thought I should tell you that I was wrong when I said what I did.” Tessier moved towards her. “I was angry.”

“And disappointed,” the princess chipped in.

Tessier acknowledged the truth with a slight nod. “Yes, Princess, disappointed.”

“But now you’ve reconsidered, and decided to bestow on me the great honor of a kiss from the renowned Blaise Tessier?” Jenevra turned cynical eyes to meet his.

Tessier closed his eyes. He could barely believe his own response. Rarely had he let morality overcome his opportunities. Here he was, standing with this challenging, vibrant young woman, wanting more than anything to take her in his arms and kiss her; and he knew he couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be right, not here, not now. He could see she was shaken by everything that had happened. This was just a reaction. Far from just following Phillips orders, Tessier found, as he thought about it, that he didn’t want to hurt her. Letting out a long, slow breath, he opened his eyes again, and knew he’d just made a worse mistake. Deep hurt was in her eyes, and her cheeks were flaming, as she realized what he was going to say. “No … I can’t, Princess.”

He reached out to touch her, to explain, but she had already whirled around and was running down the hall towards her rooms. Cursing at himself he watched as the last glimmer of white silk and silver mail disappeared into the shadows.

Back in her rooms, Jenevra sat in almost total darkness, just the low fire glowing in the hearth. She couldn’t believe it; rejected again by the most notorious womanizer in the Palace. Even in a darkened hallway Blaise Tessier wouldn’t kiss her. Without thinking she poured a large goblet of wine and drank it down in one, followed by another two in quick succession. Leaning forward, her head in her hands, she gathered her thoughts again. The best place she could be right now was away from the Palace, away from Misha, and definitely away from Captain Tessier. Jenevra’s face flushed again as she thought about the encounter. Determined to leave as swiftly as possible now, she managed to unbuckle the straps on her outfit without assistance, stripped off the tight mail shirt and white silk tunic; pulling on her familiar gray clothing with relief. Bundling all of the formal gear along with another change of gray clothes, she crossed her swords over her shoulders and wrapped the belt designed to carry Spirit Sword around her waist. Grabbing a gray cloak as she left the room, she ran down the private stairs leading to the courtyard.

She could hear Brogan’s voice issuing orders in the barracks, and saw lights and movement in the stables. Dumping her gear on the ground she leaned against the wall, thankful for the quiet and solitude.

“Jenna?”

The sound made her jump. Gray among the shadows, Misha limped towards her.

Jenevra’s anger flared again. “Misha, what in the name of the seven gods did you think you were doing back there? I nearly killed you, you idiot!”

“I know.” He grimaced. “Ki-Nimh is furious with me.”

“So am I!” she spat. “What on earth’s got into you?”

“Jenna, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I could have hurt you.”

“Really? Remind me, Misha, who was it that ended up unconscious again?” She began to stalk off, but Misha caught her arm; letting his hand drop as he saw the look in her eyes.

“Jenna, wait! We can’t leave it like this. We have the Order.”

Almost incandescent with anger that he should throw that at her after this evening’s performance, she turned on him, pushing him back against the Palace wall. With a hand on his chest she glared up at him. “The Order? Who was thinking about the Order when they were trying to get themselves killed tonight? Listen well, Misha, because I’m only going to say this once more. I don’t know, or care, what got into you tonight … or up at the waterfall. We are linked by this talisman,” she pulled at the chain around her neck. “That gives us both an obligation; to stay alive so that we can be here for the Order. That may mean we have to do things we don’t want to, like marrying or leaving someone we care about behind us. That’s how it has to be. We don’t have a choice. The Order is as much, if not more of, a duty than anything our families may throw at us. You know that.”

Misha lowered his head. “I know, Jenna. It kills me, but I do know. I just didn’t think it would be this difficult. But then, I didn’t know how I felt.” He stopped. “Look, I just came down here to tell you to be careful. You know how impulsive you can be, and I won’t be there to stop you.” He saw her eyes widen at his criticism of her impetuousness, and placed his hands softly on her shoulders. “Yes, alright, you don’t need to say it. Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Travel peacefully, Nimh’a.” He bent and planted a swift light kiss on the top of her head.

Misha drew back into the shadows as the barrack doors thudded open and Shadow Flight began to assemble in the courtyard before Jenevra could respond.

Muttering irritably to herself about the duplicity of men in general, Jenevra spotted Laio holding her horse and swung her gear up onto it. Springing lightly into the saddle she called the Flight into order. Word of the fight had obviously been passed around the Flight and a new level of respect was evident among the men.

Waving thanks to Laio and his assistants for having the horses ready, she led the Shadow Flight out of the Palace gates at a gallop, anxious to put it all as far behind her as she could.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Leaving the darkened streets of Salanova for the large plains beyond, Jenevra glanced back at the Palace nestled on the lower slopes of the mountains behind them. It was still brightly lit; obviously the wedding festivities had resumed in full swing. She smiled a little as she saw growing illumination in the south wing upper floor: the Emperor’s suite; and prayed a short blessing under her breath for her sister and Phillip.

The moons were almost half full. Jenevra determined to put some distance between them and the Palace before they stopped to rest, and the Flight swung north behind her; leaving behind the plains of Salanova for the southwestern edge of the pine forests that Jenevra had landed in just a few weeks ago. Just before dawn she called a halt, dismissing the Flight to sleep for a few hours. As they rolled themselves in blankets and cloaks on the springy beds of pine needles accumulating beneath the trees, Jenevra wandered a little apart, taking the first watch of the night along with Finn Corrigan another night owl like herself.

Finn was another of the Trevanntans; like Will Theiss, Gervaise D’Agostino and several others, he had grown up in the north-eastern part of the Empire. Finn and the two Loganssons, twins, came from Kerspoint, the easternmost point of the Marissime Empire, almost isolated by mountains, lakes and the sea. For the most part, people from that region tended to be quiet, industrious; very dependent on each other for comradeship and strangely welcoming to visitors for such insular folk. The Logansson twins were not as quiet as Finn, but they were still no match for the boisterousness of some of the other younger members of the Flight. Finn Corrigan sat high up on a deadfall tree suspended from the ground by falling across two smaller trees, checking through a stuffed quiver for any slight imperfections in the fletching of his arrows. Each arrow was subjected to intense scrutiny as he peered along its length checking for any bending that might affect its flight. He was a tall, lightly built man, with arms and shoulders that spoke of a life-time of pulling his heavy bow; slim featured with surprising green eyes and straight dark hair. Gavin Logansson had told her that Finn sang well, but the rest of the Flight had hardly heard him speak. His skill as an archer was unquestioned though. Jenevra had heard Reiff Pichot boasting about the best archer in the Imperial War Host being in his Flight, and she had felt a despicable pleasure in seeing Finn arrive in her unit. As he inspected his bow for signs of wear on the string, Jenevra walked along the picketed horses, checking their hooves and legs after the long run. Mind whirling, Jenevra knew she wouldn’t sleep that night, so she excused Finn from his watch, assuring him she was perfectly capable of taking her turn. When the Flight woke with the dawn chorus of the birds around them, they found their Captain already working with Bernardo on preparing breakfast. Slowly, they were learning not to be surprised by their new leader.

Although Bortka was considered a separate part of the Empire, it was not a Kingdom in its own right; rather it was a series of Duchies that managed to stay relatively stable. There were natural barriers in the land that probably helped this peaceful co-existence. A spine of mountains ran straight down the middle of Bortka, with rivers flowing out of them, bisecting the remaining areas. As the Flight crossed the Valez River just west of the port of Iskayne, Jenevra called to the native Bortkans among them to lead the way. “Always use those who know the land best” she remembered Dai’Nimh’s lessons clearly. “They know the secret paths, the back routes that no-one else thinks of. You can come and go in a land with barely anyone knowing you have ever been there.”

Derian Ferris was from Iskayne, and knew the area well. He had come from Reiff Pichot’s Flight and had been patrolling the borders for several months now. He’d been quiet so far, but Jenevra knew he had something of a reputation for drinking; not a quiet drunk, but loud and arrogant. A hint of it came through as he rode point; just a little too proud of his new importance. As Ferris gestured imperiously for the Flight to follow him, Brogan, riding at Jenevra’s side, rolled his eyes heavenward. “Between Ferris, Theiss and Tarran Kerr, I don’t know who I’m going to have to hit hardest.”

“That bad?” the princess asked curiously. “Kerr was one of the better climbers. What’s he done that I’ve missed?”

Scratching at his beard, Brogan considered his answer carefully. “I’m not really sure I can put a finger on it, Captain. He’s … odd, I think. There’s just something about him that strikes me as very, very dangerous, in an unpredictable way.”

“You’re all dangerous, Brogan,” Jenevra noted mildly. “Think about the damage Wulfgar could do if we let him loose!”

“That’s just it, Captain. We’d have to order Wulfgar to get angry. Kerr flies off the handle at anything; loses control totally. He nearly took young Sasha’s throat out yesterday, for no good reason.”

“Sasha?”

“Alexander. He’s very quiet. He lost his parents a couple of years ago and only came to join the Imperial army last year. He’s still just settling in, really.” Brogan glanced across at Jenevra. “D’Agostino calls him Sasha, so, of course, it’s stuck.”

She smiled. “Yes, D’Agostino does seem awfully fond of giving other people names, doesn’t he? I think we’ll have to work on one for him.”

“I could think of a few,” Brogan growled.

“So we need to watch those three.” Jenevra mused. “Anything else strike you about the Flight? Anything we need to take care of while we’ve got the freedom?”

Brogan shook his head. “The main thing on my mind right now is making sure that the younger men are all able to defend themselves properly. It’s not an issue for those who’ve been in Flights for more than a year, but we have three that are still fairly inexperienced. I’d hate to see them get hurt simply because they weren’t trained.”

“I agree. Who are we talking about there? Sasha? He was one of my climbers too wasn’t he? What about Simon? I know he was champion in the Border Patrol, but how long was he with you? He’s only young, isn’t he?”

“Twenty-two,” Brogan nodded. “He was so good with his sword we didn’t work him on anything else.” He chuckled suddenly. “Commander Rabenaldt was so determined to beat Captain Pichot he told Simon just to focus on being our sword contender for the tournaments. Of course, the lad’s a natural. I don’t remember seeing anyone that good with a sword since the Commander himself … and without any formal training too.”

“Commander Rabenaldt has a competitive streak?” Jenevra laughed too. “Just wait till we get this Flight back home, Brogan. We have to win everything just so we can watch all of their faces. Of course they’ll complain that I’ve stolen all their best men. Anyway, back to the subject … Sasha, Simon, and who else?”

“Danya, from Vos; he’s twenty four, but another one totally without training. I haven’t seen enough yet to give you any clues as to where Sasha and Danya’s strengths will be, but they’re young, strong and healthy; they’ve got to be good for something.”

“Speaking of healthy, how’s Bernardo doing? I noticed he seems to have appointed himself as cook for this Flight now.”

“Oh, he’s a great cook, Captain. No other Flight eats as well as we did when we’re in the field, because of Bernardo. He knows where to find food and he works miracles with whatever he’s given. The Border Patrol may very well never forgive you for stealing him away!”

“I’m glad he decided to do that. I really didn’t want to lose him from the Flight, but some serious running could stop his breathing totally.”

“Really? I didn’t think it was that bad.” Brogan looked concerned. “He’s never had any problems before.” Brogan and Bernardo were old friends, having served in the Border Patrol together for twenty years each.

“How much running had you done before?” Jenevra asked pointedly. “The whiteness around his nose and lips after we went running is a sign of a serious problem. If we can keep him back with the horses; cooking, keeping weapons, being our quartermaster, he should be fine. I just don’t want him to start feeling useless or left behind. He’s too good a man for that.”

“That’s a very thoughtful view for a Flight Captain.”

She laughed lightly. “I’m not supposed to be playing favorites, Brogan, but who do you think used to sneak me food and teach me what to look for when I followed you and the Border Patrol? There’s nothing you can tell me about Bernardo’s abilities: he’s been looking after me for years without the rest of you knowing about it.”

“Captain!” Derian Ferris was bellowing from some distance ahead.

“Marvelous,” she muttered to Brogan. “We’re trying to sneak through the backwoods of Bortka, and mouth almighty there wants to tell the world!”

Ferris had spotted a large cavern that he’d been looking for where they could camp for the night, and he led the way quietly after Jenevra threatened to remove various appendages with a blunt knife if he drew attention to them like that again.

Jenevra sat out on the ledge outside the cavern, back resting against the mountain. They were still fairly high up, and there was a dark smudge on the horizon where the sea began. From this side of the mountains there was nothing but lowland and sky to be seen, except the dim glow of firelight from the cave. The land lay shadowed in front of her as the sky reached out into a vast canopy of indigo; myriad stars thrown across it like blessings. That was the story she had loved more than any other at the Temple on the Island; how the Creator of all, Tore, the first God, had thrown his blessings out over the world. Some had fallen to earth as people; some remained in the heavens waiting for their time to be born. A falling star always presaged an important birth as it was the great God’s way of letting mankind see his hand at work. Balor, God of night and dreams, cared for each and every soul that resided in the stars, pulling their blankets over them at the end of every night, so that they would not be disturbed by the arrival of his sister Jarina with the bright sun.

Jenevra had loved to hear the Masters’ voices as they recited the lists of stars in their constellations, as they whispered the stories to the night sky. She drew that peace around her as she sat on the edge of the mountain, softly, and rather tunelessly, humming songs from the Island.

As Bernardo served up a hot stew for supper, several of the men moved outside to the ledge to eat. Bryce Baudoin brought a plate out for the princess, sitting on the outer edge to eat his own. Bernardo wandered outside too, mainly to check that the princess was actually eating. He knew she had a tendency to forget about food when she was preoccupied with other things. Clearing his throat loudly, he looked pointedly at the plate as Jenevra tore herself away from contemplating the sky. “Eat … Captain.”

“Nag,” she smiled, picking up a spoon and eating.

“Captain, when are we going to find these raiders—the ones who burned the village?” Dillon Boyd, another Bortkan, sounded worried. “The report said they’d attacked near my village. Shouldn’t we be trying to track them down?”

Jenevra looked at him thoughtfully. Boyd was usually chirpy; a bit of a joker. “Baudoin?” she asked. “Where did that report come from that you dashed into the throne room with?”

Baudoin turned round, leaning back on one elbow. “From some messenger who rode in. I was just coming back from the stables and he sort of fell off his horse onto me. He was quite badly hurt, so I just brought it in to you.”

“Brogan didn’t ask you to bring it in then?”

“No, Captain.”

Setting her plate down, ignoring Bernardo’s glare, Jenevra called into the cave for Brogan. “Who did you ask to bring the message in last night?”

“Well, I asked Kallan to come get us, but everything else happened before he had a chance to.”

“And you didn’t think it odd that Spider brought the message of an attack instead of Kallan?”

Brogan frowned. “No. Why?”

Jenevra swore under her breath. “Baudoin’s report is real! There really has been an attack. And we’re sitting here when we should be riding north to see what’s happened and what we can do about it.” She swore again. “Right, here’s what we do. It’s too late now to do much. Tomorrow, first light, we ride. I want you in front, Dillon. Wulfgar with you, I think. You know the way.”

“Tomorrow, Captain?” Dillon blurted. “Not tonight?”

Jenevra paused taking in Dillon’s anguished expression and relented. No-one should have to wait to find out if their family was safe. “You’re right, Dillon. Sergeant Brogan? Let’s get this Flight back on their horses. We’re heading for Bereznay tonight. Back roads, Dillon. Go discuss the best paths with the others.” Dismissing Dillon to his fellow Bortkans, she turned her attention back to Brogan, who was pacing about, obviously angry with himself. “Forget it, Sergeant! We both missed it. There was too much happening last night for us to get it all in place. We just need to focus on now.” With one last glance at the stars, she silently asked for their blessings to fall on the Shadow Flight as they headed into the night.

Dillon’s village, Albor, was nestled in the foothills west of Bereznay, just north of the Falling River. The Flight rode hard in the early morning—Dillon and Wulfgar riding about ten minutes ahead of them—coming up on the village in the growing light: only as they came closer could they see the charred buildings and broken fences; the doors hanging from their frames … and the bodies.

As the Flight began making a search of the small settlement, Jenevra’s eyes swept the village looking for ambush. Catching sight of Dillon bent almost double, retching, at a doorway on the far side of it, she nudged her horse into a canter towards him. Brogan called after her, but she didn’t hear him; she wasn’t listening, focused on Dillon’s hunched shoulders. Swinging down from the horse, she left the reins dangling and walked to Dillon’s side. Clenching her teeth against the gagging stench of death she placed a hand softly on the back of his neck. “Who were they, Dillon?”

Dillon’s shaggy blond head lifted slightly, and he spat to one side trying to clear his throat. “He was the head of the village; the mayor, I guess he’d have been if we were a bigger place. He took me in after my parents died. He’s the one who sent me to Salanova to join the Guard.” Dillon sniffed loudly, wiping his sleeve across his face. “Sorry, Captain.”

“Don’t be sorry, Dillon. These were good people. You should grieve for them.” She looked around the village, signaling to Brogan to begin moving the bodies they found to a meadow for burial. There were far too many of them; women and children as well as the men. Jenevra bowed her head, lifting prayers to the seven gods for the peaceful rest of the massacred villagers; and a healing for Dillon, who would live with these images for the rest of his life. “You do whatever you need to, Dillon,” she said. “We’ll take care of everything else.”

Walking back to Brogan and the rest of the Flight now gathered in the center of the village, she regarded them steadily. Most of them were pale, but resigned: they’d met death in many guises before. Some of the younger men had tears in their eyes; Sasha had tears streaming down his face, but a look of deep resolve on his face.

“It looks like the whole village is gone. Everyone Dillon knew from his childhood. I told him to stay where he is.” She looked back to where Dillon was still bowed in grief. “He needs to begin making his peace with this. We’ll start preparing to bury them.”

The Logansson twins appeared from inside a barn. “Captain, we have everything we need here.”

Jenevra nodded approval, and almost half of the men took up hoes and spades and began the dismal task of grave digging for the sixty or so bodies lying on the damp grass.

Bernardo had been examining the corpses for any signs that might give a clue to who had done this. Stopping to take a closer look at one body, he whistled to Brogan to come look. “What do you think?” he asked quietly. “Remind you of anything?”

“Damn, yes; you know it does. But it couldn’t be the same band, it’s too long ago.” Brogan hunkered down by the dead villager.

“We’re still going, and we were there.” Bernardo pointed out. “Maybe we need to check this with someone else; Commander Rabenaldt, maybe?”

Brogan nodded.

“Bernardo, Bran, I need you here,” Jenevra summoned her two best trackers. “I need you to take a good look around. See if you can find any signs of the animals who did this, or when, or what direction they went in. Anything you think might be useful.”

As they left, she let out a long breath. “Anything I’m forgetting, Sergeant?”

Brogan shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He looked at her hesitantly. “Permission to speak honestly, Captain?”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Brogan.” She gave him a tight smile.

“You really shouldn’t ride off into situations like that ahead of us. It could have been dangerous. What if there’d still been raiders around? You saw what they’d done to the women … and even the children.”

“It’s my job, Brogan. It’s what Captains of the Imperial Guard do.”

“With respect, Captain; no it’s not.” Brogan folded his arms, lowering his chin obstinately. “A Captain’s job is to lead the men, to give them orders and make sure someone is alive to be in charge. That means you send the men in first. And I don’t usually make an issue of it, but you are a woman.”

Jenevra frowned, digging the toes of her boot into the dry earth. “Why do you think I always insist on just “Captain”? I don’t want an enemy knowing there’s an Imperial Princess for a prize any more than you do. But you know I won’t send the men in to a situation I’m not prepared to face.”

“We know that, Captain. I’m just saying it’s not right, and not necessary. The men already know you’re prepared to do whatever it takes.”

“Not all of them, Brogan. They’re not all convinced yet.” She turned to watch Dillon. “And it’s easier for me to comfort Dillon than any of you. He’ll accept sympathy from me, where if you’d gone to him he’d have felt he had to come away from his dead and work with the Flight.”

Brogan acknowledged the truth of that. “It’s a bad sight for anyone.” He paced around peering at the ground. “You’ve just got to wonder why …” he puzzled, brushing at the tracks in the dirt. “What could this village have that was worth attacking it for?”

“Nothing,” Jenevra noted. “Not a thing. With the tools they have they couldn’t defend themselves against trained soldiers.” She kicked at a clod of earth, sending it skidding along the road. “I hate this!” Picking up a stone, she threw it savagely. “It’s so pointless; so stupid.”

“You know, Your Highness, if you wanted to walk away, take a little time, no-one would think any worse of it,” Brogan offered.

“Brogan,” she said, pained. “Can you stop using Highness? You know you only do it when you think I should be having a girly moment!” Heading back up to the meadow she walked with Dillon, helping him to put families together. None of the deaths had been easy, and Dillon suffered agonies too as he saw the torture some of them had gone through.

The Flight worked as quickly as they could, and by late afternoon most of the bodies were interred, children lying with parents, husbands with wives. Tears had poured down Dillon’s face as the cold earth closed over faces he had known, families who had nurtured him after his own had died. The last grave held the bodies of Dillon’s oldest friend, his young wife and their infant daughter. As he laid the child gently between her parents, Dillon finally collapsed with grief. Wulfgar almost lifted him to the side of the field where he stood watching the young man sob, deep sympathy etched on his broad face. Coming as they did from backgrounds of family loss, there wasn’t a man amongst them that couldn’t feel for Dillon. When your family is gone, friends are all that’s left; and Dillon’s had just been taken from him in one fell swoop.

As the last earth was smoothed over, the Flight gathered silently in the meadow. Farid Jatar, an enigmatic swordsman from Jantara, surprised them all by intoning a deeply reverent prayer over the field and, as evening fell, Finn Corrigan raised a mournful lament for the dead; his deep voice carrying clearly through the still air.

Wulfgar approached the princess respectfully, almost unwilling to address her directly; looking at Brogan as he was talking to Jenevra. “Captain, there is an inn about five miles along the road to Bereznay from here.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where Dillon was still hunched over his friend’s grave. “I think he does not need to stay here tonight.”

Jenevra nodded. “I don’t think any of us wants to stay here tonight, Wulfgar. Can you lead us there? Let’s get everyone together then. Brogan, can you see where Bernardo and Bran got to? I’ll bring Dillon.”

Standing silently behind the grieving man, Jenevra simply waited until he became aware of her presence. “I think we need to leave now, Dillon,” she said gently. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight. If you want to, we can come back tomorrow.”

Dillon rose, rubbing at his face again. “What good would that do them?” he asked bitterly. “I want to find who did this, Captain. Find them, and kill them!”

“Oh, we’ll find them, Dillon, I promise you that. We’ll keep going until we do.” Jenevra’s voice was cold. “And when we do, they will find Imperial justice wields a very sharp blade.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Inn was dark and silent, windows and doors barred. Wulfgar hammered on the door several times, but there was no response from inside. “Open up! Imperial Guard!” He shouted. “I don’t understand it, Captain,” he turned towards her looking puzzled. “They are here always. They wouldn’t just close up and leave.”

“Maybe they were frightened by what happened back at the village,” Bernardo reasoned. “Or maybe they were forced to leave.”

“They wouldn’t leave here; this place is their life.” Dillon was trying to prize the shutters open. “I’ve known Colin and Annis all my life. The only thing that would make them close this place is death.” Even as he gave voice to the thought, Dillon’s efforts to find a way in became more frantic.

From the other side of the door a man’s voice questioned gruffly, “What do you want?”

Dillon pushed forward. “Colin? It’s Dillon: Dillon from Albor! Open the door, Colin!”

The door creaked open slightly, revealing a stocky middle aged man with gray hair, peering suspiciously out at them. “Dillon?”

Dillon stood forward, as the man held up a small candle giving off just enough light to confirm his visitor’s identity. “It’s only me, Colin. These are Imperial guards, the Emperor sent us.”

Colin’s eyes opened wide at that pronouncement and he pulled the door wider to look at the group outside his inn. Most of the Flight was still mounted and, clad all in gray, difficult to see in the dim light. “Dillon?” He queried again. “What brings Imperial troops here at this time of night?”

“We were at the village, Colin; at Albor.” Dillon choked on the words. “They’re all dead, Colin; all of them.”

Colin peered out into the darkness nervously. “Aye, we know, lad.” He sighed deeply. “I suppose you’d best all come in then.” He nodded towards a large barn. “You can put your horses in there for the night. We weren’t expecting anyone, as you can see, so supplies may be a bit limited. Still, we’ll do what we can.”

Brogan dismissed the Flight to take care of their horses, with instructions to follow them into the inn when they were through. Jenevra followed him inside the inn, the hood of her cloak pulled well over her face. “You seem extraordinarily nervous, Master Colin,” Brogan noted, watching the innkeeper intently as he moved around the room lighting lanterns on the tables from his small stub of candle. “I’ve not met many innkeepers so unwilling to open their doors to a host of thirsty men!”

Colin scowled at him. “Well, I like to stay alive! There’s no knowing where those murderers are. Who’s to say you’re not them?” He stamped over to a door at the back of the inn, muttering to someone inside. “I suppose you’ll be wanting ale then? Soldiers always seem to want to drink.” Moving to a large wooden trestle that seemed to serve as a bar, he began sloshing dark, foaming liquid into pottery mugs.

“Ale would be good,” Brogan agreed. “But you know Dillon here, don’t you? Surely you don’t think he would have been involved in anything that would harm his village?”

Colin grunted, slamming the tankards of dark ale onto the boards of a long table in the center of the room. “That’s why I opened the door. If it wasn’t for him, you’d still be standing outside.” He stopped and seemed to consider for a moment. Leaning forward onto the table he stared Brogan in the face as if trying to judge him. “How bad was it?” He asked finally. “We’ve heard something … but we don’t know much.”

Brogan picked up a brimming tankard and drank deeply, using the movement to glance at Jenevra, who nodded agreement. “It was grim. We didn’t find any survivors.”

Colin gasped audibly. “None? There wasn’t anyone left alive?”

“They were all dead, Colin. All of them; the whole village; men women, children; all slaughtered and left out to rot.” Dillon’s voice was harsh. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

“Did you see them?” Colin hesitated. “I mean … could you tell who they were?”

“Dillon told us their names.” Brogan told him. “We laid them all to rest in the meadow. We placed name markers on the graves.”

Colin walked over to where Dillon was sitting; his head in his hands. Laying a hand on his shoulder, Colin asked him, “Did you see Taghan the smith? Dillon … it’s important. Did you see Taghan?”

Raising his head, Dillon nodded slowly. “We buried him with his wife.”

Colin sank onto the bench next to Dillon, shaking his head. “We had hoped—” He broke off. “Annis!” he called, looking towards the door he had spoken through earlier. “Annis, come on out here.”

A short, plump woman came through the door, two small girls clinging tightly to her skirts. “What is it, Colin? Can’t you see they’re frightened enough without you shouting and dragging them in here with all these men?”

“Annis … this is Dillon. Remember Dillon from Albor?”

“Well of course I remember him,” Annis said shortly. “You went to Salanova didn’t you? To join the Imperial Guard, Olwen said. She was so proud of you.” Taking in Dillon’s red eyes, she realized where he had been. Bustling over to him, she hugged his head tightly to her. “Oh, you poor boy. It’s true then?” She dabbed at her own eyes. “Olwen? Fenner?”

“Dead.” Dillon’s voice was muffled in Annis’s embrace.

“Taghan too,” Colin told her bleakly.

“No!” Annis’s eyes filled with tears and she bent down hugging the two little girls tightly to her.

Brogan shot another look into the shadowed corner, seeing only Jenevra’s back disappearing through the door. Knowing there were still several members of the Flight outside, including D’Agostino, who might be a loud mouth but who Brogan knew would defend the princess with his life; he let her go. The day had been hard on all of them; she probably just needed some time alone. Turning back to Colin and Annis he confirmed, “Are these his daughters then?”

“His son is in the kitchen, too.” Colin walked wearily over to the door, pushing it open a little. “Tallis? Come on in here, my boy. These are Imperial Guards, they’re here to help.” He waited for a moment, and then put his arm around the shoulders of a well-built boy of about thirteen, bringing him in to the room where Brogan could see him.

“You’re Tallis? You’re the blacksmith’s son, yes?” Brogan spoke softly, not wanting to scare the lad. “You did well getting your sisters here safely.”

Tallis just stared at the floor sullenly.

Brogan took another mouthful of beer, considering what to ask the boy. He decided just to dive in. If Tallis wasn’t ready to talk it wouldn’t matter what the question was. “Tallis, we’ve been to your village, so I know what you saw was bad. But we need to find the people who did this. Can you tell us anything about what you saw; anything at all?”

Tallis’s gaze was riveted downwards, tangled mousy hair falling over his face. The silence grew thick in the room as the men all tried to ignore the boy’s discomfort by concentrating on their beer.

The door opened, admitting a broadly grinning D’Agostino who bowed extravagantly as Jenevra came back into the inn, no longer hidden in a gray cloak, but resplendent in her formal white and silver; mail shirt gleaming, with her cloak turned inside out showing gleaming white satin. A silver circlet on her head gave just enough impression of a crown for one of the little girls clinging to Annis to look up and say, “Ooh … a Princess!”

“That’s right,” Jenevra assured her. “A Princess who’s come specially to see you and your brother and sister.”

Both of the girls looked at her wide-eyed; as did Colin, Annis and most of the Flight. Tallis stared suspiciously at her.

Brogan laughed to himself. What was it Raik Rabenaldt has told him? Never underestimate her, Brogan. She’ll turn you gray, but she’ll make you proud every time. Standing up, he took Jenevra’s hand and introduced her formally to the flustered inn keeper and his wife. “Colin, Annis, may I present our Captain? Her Imperial Highness, Jenevra Couressime.”

As Colin and Annis almost fell over themselves to bow, curtsey and generally make up for their not recognizing her, the smallest girl tugged on her cloak, removing her thumb from her mouth long enough to ask, “Are you really a real Princess?”

Jenevra squatted down, white satin pooling around her. “Yes, I really am. What’s your name?”

“She’s Tilda, I’m Teshia.” Pushing the little one aside, her big sister didn’t want to be left out. “I’m six. Tilda’s only four.”

Completely ignoring everyone else in the room, Jenevra walked over to the huge fireplace, where a low fire was still glowing. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she waved to the two little girls to join her. They scrambled over to her, forgetting about Annis in their excitement at this shining figure that looked like nothing they had ever seen before.

Annis shook her head. “I hate to ask,” she said in an undertone to Brogan. “But was that the truth? Is she really a Princess?”

“Oh yes,” Brogan laughed. “Every bit of her.”

“Isn’t she a bit, well …” Annis hesitated. “…underdressed? I mean …” She blushed. “It’s not much of a gown, is it? I thought an Imperial Princess would wear … more.” She went an even deeper shade of crimson as Jenevra took the cloak from her shoulders and wrapped it around the two little ones, who giggled and stroked the satin as if it was a puppy.

Totally oblivious to the admiring astonishment of the Flight, most of who hadn’t seen the formal uniform of their commander before, Jenevra sat on the floor in the skimpy tunic and mail, long legs folded under her; focused on two of the only three surviving witnesses to the massacre of Albor.

Bernardo managed to persuade Annis to let him help her in the kitchen, assuring her that the girls would be safe. In a short space of time they were heating a thick stew and warming bread made earlier in the day. As they worked, Bernardo told Annis enough of Jenevra’s own history to enlist her sympathy for the princess, assuring her of Jenevra’s authority and ability to bring the raiders to justice. Carrying food back into the main room of the inn, Annis and Bernardo saw that Jenevra, Tilda and Teshia were exactly where they had been before, but the men in the room had all crept a little closer to the fire; some sitting, some standing, but all engrossed in the story Jenevra was telling the girls. Even Tallis had moved close to hear the tale.

Jenevra was telling the story of Tore’s blessings; how the stars were people who had died and people waiting to be born; of Balor the God of the Night and Jarina, the Blessed Bringer of the Day. Not many of them had heard the legend the way Jenevra knew it, and they were spellbound. As she finished telling them how Balor tucked the stars in at dawn, Tilda looked up at her. “Will he be tucking my momma and poppa in tonight?”

Amid a sudden clearing of throats and movement as the Flight wandered off into dark corners surreptitiously wiping at eyes, Jenevra bit hard on the inside of her lip. “Do you want to come outside and look at them with me?” She asked. “Maybe we can see them and wave goodnight?”

Tilda held her arms up to be carried. Swinging her round onto one hip, Jenevra held out her hand to Teshia, and called back over her shoulder for their brother to join them. Most of the Flight followed quietly. The night was clear, with just the occasional cloud scudding across the sky. Moving across the yard, Jenevra tilted her head to look up at the sky. “See there?” She pointed up to a row of bright stars almost directly overhead. “Look across from them. You see those two bright stars, right next to each other?” The children nodded. “Those are my parents.”

“Your parents are up there?” Tallis spoke for the first time.

“Yes,” Jenevra gazed upwards. “My parents were killed when I was a baby.”

“By bad men?”

“Yes, Teshia, by bad men. But I still get to say goodnight to them every day, because I can see them up there in the sky. I know they aren’t here with me, but I feel like they aren’t truly gone while I can see them.”

Tallis moved closer to her side. “Do you really think our parents are up there?”

“I’m sure of it, Tallis,” she told him. “Look, do you see that large group of stars all together, straight ahead?”

He followed the direction she was pointing in and saw a cluster of stars in a circle.

“I think that must be your village. I haven’t seen that group until a couple of nights ago. It’s new. And you see there are two really bright ones at the center?”

“That’s momma and poppa!” Tilda exclaimed excitedly. “I know it is!”

“You truly think so, Princess?” Tallis sounded close to tears.

“I know it, Tallis.” She touched his cheek gently. “The same way I know mine are there.” The boy nodded, tears rolling unchecked down his face as he stood next to the young Princess who glimmered like a star in the moonlight.

“Are you cold?” Brogan poked at the fire, trying to stir the embers up. Jenevra shook her head, motioning for him to stop. Tilda and Teshia were curled up either side of her on a large settle, fast asleep. Tallis was sitting on the floor, resting his head against her legs. Bernardo picked the girls up gently to carry them upstairs for Annis who was hovering nearby, unwilling to disturb the princess. Tilda began to squirm about in his arms until Jenevra tucked the satin cloak around her.

“What now, Sergeant?” She gave Brogan a long assessing look.

“You surprised me that’s all, Captain. I should have known better.”

“Ahh … Raik Rabenaldt been telling tales again, has he? She’ll turn your hair gray, Brogan!” Jenevra gave a wicked imitation of the Imperial High Commander.

Brogan chuckled. “How did you know?”

She shrugged. “He’s been telling me I’m turning him gray for years. I just guessed it’d be his main caution when warning anyone else what to expect. I keep telling them I’ve changed, but no one seems to believe me.” She gave a mock sigh and looked down at the white and silver outfit she still wore. “But then I guess I never thought all this frippery would come in useful, either. I never thought being seen as a Princess would be a good thing.”

“It certainly worked with the girls,” Brogan acknowledged.

Tallis opened his eyes sleepily. “Princess?”

“Yes, Tallis.” She stroked his hair gently.

“Did you ever get the men who killed your parents?”

“No.”

Tallis looked up. “Why not?”

“I don’t know who they were.”

“No-one ever found out?” Tallis sounded surprised.

“Not as far as I know. Of course, it’s possible they just didn’t tell me about it.” Jenevra conceded. “Do you know, Brogan?”

“Er … no, Captain. We never did find out for sure.”

“For sure? You mean there was some idea who might have done it?” Jenevra’s eyes snapped; suddenly alert.

Sensing the tension, but not understanding its source, Tallis announced. “I want to go with you.”

“What?”

“When you go to find the men who killed my parents I want to go with you.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too dangerous, we don’t know who they are or where they are; you’re too young. There’s a whole host of reasons, Tallis, but the simple one is really because I say so.”

“But I want to.”

“I know.”

“So I can go with you?”

“No.”

“Fine then,” Tallis sniffed moodily. “I’ll go on my own.”

“And just where do you think you’ll go, young man?” Brogan asked.

“Diruthia.”

Brogan paused in mid-breath. “Diruthia? What makes you think they came from Diruthia?” He waved to Bernardo to come over. “Tallis,” Brogan’s tone held more urgency in it now, and Jenevra’s eyes narrowed knowing there was more to this than she had been told. “What makes you think they came from Diruthia?”

Bernardo’s normally placid gaze became intense as he heard the question.

Now that he had their full attention, Tallis was beginning to look worried. He hadn’t anticipated this reaction. Sliding onto the settle, he edged closer to Jenevra.

“What do you know about them Tallis? It’s important.”

“Will you take me with you if I tell you?”

Jenevra shook her head. “I can’t do that, Tallis, even if I wanted to. We’re all under the Emperor’s orders here, even me.” Her eyes searched Tallis’s face until he nodded a grudging agreement.

“Good. Anyway, I need you to look after everyone here. Your job is to look after your sisters and to help Colin and Annis. But I’ll make you a bargain …”

Tallis looked hopeful.

“If you tell me everything you can remember, I promise you a place in this Flight when you’re eighteen. Deal?” The princess held out her hand.

Shaking it, Tallis reached into a pocket, pulling out a small object; a button. He handed it to Jenevra. “They were from Diruthia; you could tell by the way they talked.”

“How does this tell us anything?” she pondered, trying to remember where she had seen the design etched onto it before.

Bernardo placed an identical button next to it in her palm. “I found this at the village too.”

“Fine … but how do we get from two buttons to Diruthia?”

“The crest on the buttons belongs to the Count of Fetu-Vallis. He’s Diruthian.”

“It sort of rings a bell,” Jenevra mused, scratching the end of her nose. “I just don’t know where from.”

Brogan and Bernardo exchanged glances. “It’s one of those hereditary titles, like your Duchess of Coursim.”

Jenevra’s face stilled. “Explain.”

“It’s one of the titles given to the Crown Prince. You know, the Crown Prince is always the Count of Fetu-Vallis.”

“Cieren? Prince Cieren is the Count of Fetu-whatsit?” Even as she asked she knew it for fact: she remembered now where she’d seen the design before. Her hand had rested on Cieren’s as they’d gone in to dinner, on a ring bearing the exact same crest. His title had been announced as they entered the room.

“As was Corros before him,” Bernardo added, coldly.

Brogan shot him a warning glance, which Jenevra caught.

“What does Corros have to do with this?”

“Nothing that we know of.” Brogan’s warning to Bernardo was clear. “We need to check into these buttons, Captain. It may be someone planted them there to make us think it was the Diruthians.”

“Well, we can’t place any blame directly on the King or his son. They were at the wedding. I even danced with Cieren, so I know he was there. And why? Why bother with a small village like that? It doesn’t make any sense.” Jenevra’s eyes narrowed as she tried to piece together the few bits of information they had. Maybe it was just coincidence that the Diruthian King and his son seemed to be involved here, as well as being the connection with Menzetti’s plan to marry her off. “Go to bed, Tallis.” Jenevra gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder. “You’ve been a great help.”

“You’ll remember your promise, Princess? About joining your soldiers?”

“Come find me when you’re eighteen, Tallis. There’ll be a uniform waiting for you.” She promised. “What is going on over there?” Jenevra, Brogan and Bernardo were distracted by a sudden commotion from the other side of the room. Jenevra’s eyes blazed in fury as she saw Derrian Ferris and Will Theiss rolling around on the floor fighting. Before anyone could stop her, she strode over to the brawling pair, grabbing each one by a large handful of hair and hauling them apart. The sudden onset of pain seemed to break through their dispute as they realized who was standing between them.

“Tie them both up,” she ordered. “I’ll deal with them tomorrow. Colin and Annis don’t deserve any more trouble—especially not from anyone in my Flight! I don’t care how this started; there are no excuses. And the rest of you should have stopped them!” Pushing Theiss and Ferris towards other members of the Flight, Jenevra stormed out of the inn furious, knowing she would have to make herself understood in no uncertain terms tomorrow. She was surprised to see one of the quieter members of the Flight follow her outside.

Farid Jatar was an unknown. Unlike any of the others, his ancestry seemed to lie outside the Empire, although he claimed to come from Jantara. Tall and curiously graceful of movement, his hair was jet black; not the very darkest brown like Finn Corrigan or Phillip, but a true black; waving to his shoulders. His eyes were the same: not dark brown, but black, with hooded lids, under rigidly defined brows. His clear gaze seemed to miss nothing. Tightly controlled in his emotions and speech, he had been the one who gave voice to prayer at the village; giving them a glimpse of the deeply held beliefs that governed the man. He reminded Jenevra of an eagle, with a nobility about him that was not present in the other men. Even his fighting style was different, with a fluidity and foot pattern that was unfamiliar to her despite training in various styles on the Island.

Farid was carrying a gray cloak over one arm. “You will need this, Captain.” He held it out to her, and she accepted it with a nod, swinging it over her shoulders. He made no move to leave, standing a few feet away, arms folded, regarding the sky. “I have not heard your legend of the stars before, Captain. It was a good tale, I think, for the children. It helped them.”

“It was meant to.”

“Captain, you told the boy that you see your parents out there in the stars. Forgive my asking but, was that true?”

She glanced at him, puzzled by his interest. “It may sound childish to you, Jatar, but yes, I do.” Feeling the need to explain a little more, she continued, “I never knew my parents, but someone told me the legend of the stars, and I just held on to it as a way of knowing them. As time went on, it just seemed right. I heard the stories told as I told them tonight, and I believed them.” She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Most people regard the tales as simply that, but I have felt their comfort, so I choose to believe.”

Farid’s face was shadowed in the night, but his teeth gleamed as he smiled. “Good. I am glad.” As he turned to leave, Jenevra asked him, “Why is that important to you?”

“If I thought you would deceive them with a lie, I could not stay under your command.” He stated simply. “I can follow you with a clear heart and mind now.” He bowed deeply, bringing his hands to his heart in salute. “Good night, my Captain.”

Scrubbing a hand over her face, she leaned exhausted on the top rail of a fence running along the edge of the road to the inn. Resting her head on her arms, she sighed deeply. This night was lasting forever.

“Captain?” Another voice came from behind her.

“Dear gods, what now?” Jenevra complained, disbelievingly.

Gervaise D’Agostino appeared at her side, holding something carefully between his thumb and forefinger. “Sarge sent this to you.” He announced chirpily.

“Sarge? That’s sergeant to you, D’Agostino. What is it anyway?”

“He said it’s another gray hair, Captain, and if you don’t want him to be totally white by morning, you’d better come back inside.”

“And Bernardo’s on the warpath about you not eating anything.” Spider Baudoin added from the other side of her.

“I do not believe this,” Jenevra fumed. “You can tell them both to … no, never mind. Just go back inside. I’m staying here until I’m ready to come in.”

“Well, Bernardo thought you might say that, so he sent this out for you.” Spider held out an apple and a tankard of ale. “He said we have to stay at least until you’ve eaten the apple.”

“A likely story.” Sniffing suspiciously at the ale, she dumped it out onto the floor. “Probably a nice strong sleeping draught in it, knowing them.” Reaching down inside one of the white boots, she drew out a long slim bladed knife. Cutting the apple in half, she inspected it minutely. Taking a bite out of one half, she spat it out. “Can’t they come up with anything more original? An apple … really.” She looked at D’Agostino who was holding dried fruit he’d brought out with him. “Thank you!” She stole several dried apricots from him, munching them cheerfully. Only as she noticed D’Agostino grinning did she realize her mistake. “No,” she groaned. “How could I be so stupid? I hope Bernardo realizes I’ll never eat anything he gives me ever again! This is mutiny, y’know—”

Baudoin caught her as she slipped out of consciousness, lifting her easily and placing her softly on the bed Annis had made ready for her. As Annis drew a warm blanket over the sleeping Princess, the inn finally settled down to quietness.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The next morning arrived wrapped in a heavy swathe of mist, blurring the trails and mountains as the Flight rode south. They had left the inn early, Jenevra’s tone brooking no objections. Her eyes were shadowed; the result of the drugged sleep. Her only words so far had been curt instructions to the Flight; she hadn’t spoken to Brogan or Bernardo other than as orders. She had thanked Colin and Annis, hugged the girls, and reminded Tallis of her orders for him. Before leaving, she had taken one of her daggers from her boots and given it to the boy with the instruction, “Bring it with you when you come to find me.”

Gathering her reins, she had swept out of the inn’s yard, the Flight following her lead. She hadn’t explained her decision to ride south, away from Diruthia; nor had she told anyone to release Theiss and Ferris, so they were riding with hands still bound. Dillon rode at the head of the column with her, providing brief directions when necessary; but he found the princess had an unerring sense of where they were even through the fog. At the base of a mountain she turned her horse and headed up it. When Dillon queried it, she ignored him, urging her horse into a trot along the rocky path. The Flight were forced to follow in single file; the horses rolling their eyes nervously as they sensed the steep drop developing to one side of them, barely visible through the swirling mist. The air grew colder as they rode higher and the men drew their cloaks tighter around them against the encroaching damp.

“Captain?” Brogan finally decided to speak up. “This path is treacherous. Are you sure we need to be on it?” He regretted his choice of words almost immediately.

“Treacherous?” Jenevra hissed angrily. “What part of mutiny do you not understand? You are not my keeper, Sergeant, whatever Commander Rabenaldt may have told you!”

Brogan stared ahead, jaw set.

“Do you have any idea how seriously you undermined me with what you and Bernardo did last night? Any idea?” She kicked her horse on again, disappearing into the mist.

“Oops,” muttered Bernardo, riding next to him, who had heard the whole whispered exchange. “She’s growing fangs.”

The Flight emerged onto a large open area, steep sides dropping away into a mist-filled void to their left. They found Jenevra already dismounted, and did the same. The princess had discarded her cloak, just wearing her regular gray uniform; the Spirit Sword hanging from its double wrapped belt around her waist. Signaling Theiss and Ferris to dismount she dragged them both across to the edge of the ledge, kicking their legs to make them kneel facing the Flight. Pacing in front of them, she began to speak in a quiet but clear voice; not a trace of emotion in it. “Last night you shamed this Flight. You violated the hospitality of good people who had already seen enough trouble—and you had no reason for doing so other than drunken stupidity.”

She drew the Spirit Sword, resting the blade against her right shoulder. “You, Ferris,” She pointed the tip of the blade at his chest. “You were warned before about drawing attention to us … and about drinking.” She turned away slightly. “If I catch you taking one more drink while you are with this Flight you are a dead man.” Tapping the Sword against her shoulder again, she looked down at Theiss. “You have had entirely too many warnings.” The sword arced down swiftly, sending Theiss’s head flying into the canyon. As his corpse started to topple forward, she placed a booted foot on the chest and sent it plummeting into the mist too.

Ferris was retching, the side of his face splattered with Theiss’s blood. He raised his chin as Jenevra’s sword bit into the flesh underneath. His blood ran colder still as he met her gaze. “Do I make myself clear, Ferris?” She slit the rope binding his hands.

He nodded, incapable of speech.

“Mount up. We ride for Salanova.” Wiping the Sword on a rag she pulled out of her pack and sliding it back into its scabbard, Jenevra swung back up onto her horse.

The Flight followed in stunned silence.

“Spider?” D’Agostino looked nervously at the tall figure riding next to him. “Tell me she doesn’t blame us for last night!” His hand strayed towards his neck as he shuddered. “I really never expected that, you know … not from her.”

Baudoin gave him a grim smile. “I rather think that was the point.”

Reaching Salanova early the following morning, Jenevra dismissed the Flight, warning them to be ready to ride out again the next day. “I promised we’d find those murdering scum, and we will. I need to talk with the Emperor and pick up some information; then we leave again. Sergeant, organize supplies for at least a couple of weeks. We’ll probably need supply horses this time, so talk to Laio about that. Also, spare weapons, blankets; put someone in charge of all that. I may need you to meet with Commander Rabenaldt, the Emperor and me at some point too. I’ll send someone when I know.”

Brogan saluted as she disappeared across the yard into the Palace. Dismissing the men, he began to arrange for the equipment the Captain had requested. He also sent to the kitchens for an extra barrel of ale for the barracks for that night. The men of the Shadow Flight needed to resolve what they had witnessed, and come to terms with their commanding officer. Talking it through over a few drinks was as good a way as he had ever found of doing that.

Jenevra didn’t bother changing; she strode directly to the Emperor’s suite of rooms, barging in to the first one where Karl, Phillip’s steward, intercepted her.

“Your Imperial Highness! The Emperor will be thrilled to see you.”

“Good, then let’s get him out here now shall we, Karl?”

“His Majesty is currently unavailable, Your Highness; but I’ll tell him you called, and I’m sure he will arrange a meeting at his earliest convenience.”

Hands on hips, Jenevra glared at Karl impatiently. “I don’t think so.” She pushed past him to the second set of doors, hammering at them with her fist. “Phillip! I need to talk to you … now! Put Chris down; you’ve got plenty of time for that!”

A few moments later the doors opened and a hand reached out dragging Jenevra inside. “What on earth do you want? Couldn’t it wait?” Phillip was wrapped in a dark robe; his hair all over the place. He pulled her along into a small dressing room. “This had better be good, Jenn,” he warned.

“It is.” Her tone made him do a double take. “I need to see you, Raik, and maybe even your mother, privately, as soon as possible.”

“Together? What’s going on?”

“I’m not totally certain, Phil. I am certain, however, that Raik and your mother have been keeping things from us. Things that I need to know. Plus there’s the possibility that Corros and his son are playing some more dangerous game than we thought. There’s a connection I haven’t made yet, but Raik knows what it is; or at least he holds the clues,” she conceded.

Phillip stood up. “I’ll send for them to meet us in the Tower council chamber in two hours.” He looked pointedly at the travel and blood stained clothes she was wearing. “Just change before my mother sees you!”

Back in her own rooms, Jenevra was slightly puzzled at the array of clothes that awaited her. “What are these? What is Lady Massili thinking?” She held up an outfit to Anna.

“Oh, Your Highness, that wasn’t Lady Massili. It was the Empress—your sister, Lady Christiana. She thought you needed some color.” Anna gave a sheepish smile.

Jenevra shook her head at the new rainbow assortment of tunics, and grimaced. “Violet? What was she thinking?”

Within an hour Jenevra was bathed, changed and sitting in the Tower room, waiting for the others to arrive, thinking through all she had learned. Raik was first to join her, followed almost immediately by Phillip with Arrilia Neilla.

“What’s all this about, Jenevra?” Phillip wasted no time as they all sat down.

Quickly, she explained the situation to them; the crossed messages after her investiture as Protector, the massacre at Albor and the possibility of a connection with Diruthia.

Arrilia Neilla was pale. “Jenevra, I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be running into situations like this. It’s horrific. No young woman should have to see that sort of thing.”

“Aunt Neilla,” Jenevra said gently. “The young women who died at Albor deserved to have someone like me with them at the end. I’m as safe as anyone else in the Flight, and I want to be there. No, it’s not nice. No-one wants to see a village wiped out. But I think my being there helped; even with the Flight. Dillon wouldn’t have been able to grieve if Stephan or Richard had been his Flight Captain; he would have felt compelled to be ‘manly’ about it. And even the princess thing worked with the little ones. No-one else could have pulled that off.”

“I know, Jenevra; and we’re all terribly proud of you, but—”

“Mother! I need Jenevra with that Flight. It’s not changing any time soon.” Phillip was adamant. “I’m afraid you’re just going to have to learn to live with it.”

Raik had been watching Jenevra thoughtfully as she made her report. Now, he leaned forward, arms on the table. “Why Diruthia, Jenn? Surely you wouldn’t make an accusation that strong based on the word of a young boy?”

Jenevra’s face darkened. “You’re right, Commander. I wouldn’t. But first why don’t you tell me what Corros of Diruthia had to do with my parents’ deaths?”

“What?” Phillip asked, in a dangerously quiet voice.

Arrilia Neilla went paler still, and Raik himself changed through several shades. “What makes you ask that, Jenn? Why would that come up now?”

The princess dropped two buttons onto the table. “These would, Commander. Why don’t you explain the significance of these buttons to Phillip? Or would you rather I did?”

Raik looked at the buttons lying on the table, but didn’t make any move to pick them up.

“Well?” she challenged. “What do these buttons mean to the Border Patrol?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar!”

Raik jumped to his feet, slamming his hands hard onto the table, making Phillip and Arrilia Neilla jump. “Who do you think you’re calling a liar?” He was furious.

Jenevra didn’t blink. “Are you going to tell me you’ve never heard of the Count of Fetu-Vallis either, Commander? Because I don’t believe you!” She moved around the table to face Raik directly. “Your men recognized these buttons, and went out of their way to keep me away from them until they had no choice. The buttons came from men belonging to Fetu-Vallis, the hereditary earldom of the Crown Prince of Diruthia! Yes,” she turned to Phillip. “We’re back to Corros of Diruthia, the man who was trying to arrange my marriage to the current Count of Fetu-Vallis, his son, Cieren. Isn’t that interesting? And it just so happens that Corros, who used to be the Count of Fetu-Vallis, was the only suspect they ever really had for my parents’ murders. Correct me if I’m wrong on any of this, Commander.”

“It was never proved, Captain. We can’t just go around making wild accusations against other kingdoms, you know. You have an awful lot to learn about evidence and proof, Jenevra. Anyone could have dropped those buttons, trying to implicate Corros.”

“Really?” Jenevra held out her hand. “Can I see the token you keep on that chain around your neck?”

Raik glanced down to where a small disc on a chain had swung out from under his shirt as he’d jumped up. He sat heavily. “No.”

“Raik, what is it?” Arrilia Neilla sounded tense. “What’s on the chain?”

“Jenevra!” Raik’s gray eyes held warning. “Don’t go looking for this. I’m telling you … don’t do this.”

“I have to. Don’t you get it, Raik?” she said softly, almost apologetically. “I have to know, after seeing Albor. If what I saw there was the same as you saw back then, I have to know.”

Reluctantly accepting that he had no choice, he took the chain from his neck and held it out to Phillip. “Here, Majesty. This was in Stephan Couressime’s hand when we reached him. It’s identical to the two you see there.” Raik looked seriously at Phillip. “We couldn’t prove they were really Corros’s men.” He shook his head in disgust. “Now you’re going to have to stop her going after them, or we’ll end up with another Couressime death.”

“I can take care of myself …”

Phillip held his hand up for silence. “I’ll think about it. For now, you both stay in the palace. I don’t want any discussion of this outside this room, are we clear on that?” He turned to Arrilia Neilla who was sitting with her hands over her face. “Did you know any of this, mother?” He asked accusingly. “Did you know there was any suspicion of Corros being involved?”

The Dowager Empress raised her head to her son, dark eyes glittering with unshed tears in a shockingly pale face. “You think I would have left them unavenged?” she hissed. “My own sister?” She stood up slowly, one hand clenched on the table’s edge for support. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, Raik. You know what those deaths did to me. How could you not tell me?”

“Reiff knew, Neilla. He’s the one who made the decision not to tell you. He’s also the one who told me to keep that button, so we would remember what it looked like if we ever had a chance to confront Corros legitimately. I may have been in love with you, but I was always under my Emperor’s orders. We thought it was for the best. It kept the rest of the family safe.”

“Until now,” Phillip noted. “You,” he jabbed his finger at Jenevra. “Stay in the Palace grounds. No unauthorized outings. I’ll send you word of my decision in the morning, and you will obey it.” He looked pointedly at Raik. “Both of you will.”

Phillip left the room with Arrilia Neilla, leaving Raik and Jenevra in an awkward silence.

Raik stared out of the window. “Why now, Jenn?” He didn’t even turn to look at her. “You’ve never seemed bothered by this before. It wasn’t just the village, was it? What else happened?”

Jenevra flopped back onto a chair. “It was the village; in a way. It just seemed to unlock something in me; and then I saw Brogan and Bernardo trying to be furtive about the buttons. They didn’t know I’d seen them, but they’re not terribly good at sneaking.” She gave a fleeting smile. “I think it was seeing the children, though.” She sighed. “And then one thing just led to another. A couple of the men had a fight. Brogan and Bernardo pulled something that forced my hand on an authority thing. It just went on.”

“It’s settled now, though, yes?” Raik tried not to look too concerned.

“Oh yes,” Jenevra opened her eyes wide. “I think we can safely say that. There won’t be any more trouble from that quarter. Anyway,” she stood again, adjusting her swords. “I’d better go make sure everything’s in place for us to leave. As soon as Phillip gives the word, we’re off.” Walking across to him she looked up into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Raik. I know you don’t want me doing this and I’m sorry I involved you. I didn’t mean for it to become an issue between you and Aunt Neilla; I thought she knew.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “And Jenn?”

She turned around with her hand on the door.

“Next time you call me a liar, we’ll be fighting.”

She grinned at him as she slipped out of the room.

Later that evening, after a quiet supper on her own in her rooms, Jenevra wandered along to the Empress’s suite, where Christiana was entertaining the female contingent of the court. Among the clothes that Christiana had ordered for Jenevra was a gown in the looser style that she liked, but made out of the same spring sky blue she had worn for the Imperial wedding. Thinking she might even like this one, the princess was quite comfortable in it as she strolled, barefoot again, into the room. Greeting her sister warmly, she moved around speaking to all the other ladies. Serena smiled at her, as did Lennia. Arrilia Neilla was sitting in a large soft chair near the fireplace, and Jenevra pulled a small ottoman over to sit next to her. “Are you angry with me?” She asked quietly.

“Jenevra, why is that always your first question? Does it seem to you as though I am always angry with you?”

Jenevra tipped her head. “We-ll, no; but whenever I see you there’s usually a good reason why you should be.”

Arrilia Neilla smiled at her niece. “That’s true, isn’t it? But you always do things for what you consider to be the right reasons, so it’s rather difficult to remain angry.”

“That’s what Raik says about you.”

“What? Not that I’m interested.”

“Of course not.” Jenevra smirked. “He always says that I’m like you when I do things he thinks are stupid because I think it’s the right thing to do.”

“So, the Commander thinks we do stupid things, does he?”

“Totally, but only because our hearts are in the right place. That’s reassuring, isn’t it? I mean, will that include you marrying him?”

Arrilia Neilla shot an amused look at her niece. “I’m not sure that’s how he will see it, but yes, I think we should consider me marrying Raik as a stupid thing I’d do because my heart’s in the right place.

“How’s your heart doing?” Christiana joined them, radiant in an ivory gown cut in a similar style to Jenevra’s. “How’s Prince Mikhail? Or Captain Tessier?”

“I haven’t seen either of them since I arrived, and that’s probably for the best. They’re just a distraction, and I don’t need that right now. They’re just annoying.” Jenevra buried her nose in a large goblet of water.

“Well, your Prince and the Captain have been stomping around the Palace glaring at each other like stalking wolves for the last couple of days, so I’d say they’re not quite as indifferent as you claim to be.” Christiana smirked over the rim of her wine cup. “Looks as though I’m finally going to be able to get you back for all those comments you and Richard made before Phillip and I were married.”

The beer had been flowing in the Shadow Flight barracks when the Imperial War Host High Commander and the Emperor arrived. Phillip quickly waved them all to sit back down. “Just an informal visit to see how my newest Flight is doing,” he assured them. “We even brought our own beer.” He gestured to the barrel Raik had balanced on his shoulder. “If you men don’t mind too much, there are a few others who’d like to join us in toasting the new Flight.”

Stephan, Richard and Captains Tessier and Manvi joined them, all dipping out large tankards of foaming brew from the Flight’s open cask.

One of the Flight’s soldiers approached the open barrel with something like fear. As he stretched out a hand with a tankard, his arm began to shake violently, and he backed away, looking at it with longing and terror. Putting his arm out again, tentatively, he heard a steely rasp of metal behind him, dropped the mug and scurried behind a bench.

As the visitors watched this in bewilderment, Gervaise D’Agostino sheathed his dagger, grinning wickedly, and enlightened them. “The Captain is helping Ferris with his drinking problem, Majesty. I think it’s some kind of aversion training.”

“It seems to be working,” Richard noted dryly.

“Yes, the Captain does have a way with her, Your Highness: she tends to get right to the point.”

The Flight groaned throwing whatever was to hand at D’Agostino, who just grinned and dodged the missiles.

“I take it we’re missing something here, Brogan?” Raik queried.

Brogan scowled at D’Agostino. He didn’t want to discuss the Flight’s problems in front of the other Captains. The princess deserved more loyalty than that. But, the Emperor’s command overrode any objections he might have, and Brogan found himself telling the story of the whole journey, including the drugged fruit and subsequent execution of Will Theiss.

“You did what?” Anger was evident on Raik’s face, as Brogan and Bernardo managed to look somewhat ashamed of themselves.

“She actually killed him? Beheaded? She didn’t tell you to do it?” Stephan was astounded; which was a step better than Richard who was truly speechless, sitting with his mouth hanging open.

“All her own work. And beautifully done, too,” noted Bernardo, raising his head, beaming like a proud father. “You haven’t seen a cleaner stroke than that one. That sword must be like a razor though, because it went through his neck like it was going through butter.”

“Thanks for that,” Spider Baudoin dropped the large hunk of buttered bread he’d been chewing.

“I don’t believe it,” Richard found his voice. “Jenevra’s not a killer. You’re just trying to make her look tough.” In honesty, he didn’t sound too convinced of his own argument.

“No, Your Highness. She’s a soldier.” Brogan defended the princess. “She did it because she had to; no other reason. She’d told Theiss that next time he failed to follow an order, she’d take his head off his shoulders herself—so she did. Necessity, that’s all. Although it is good to know we have a commanding officer who isn’t going to faint at the sight of blood.” Brogan hesitated slightly. “She’s hardly spoken to us since the evening at the inn. Just orders. It’s possible the whole thing actually upset her more than she’s letting on.”

“No. She has an honest heart.” Farid Jatar pronounced solemnly. “She is silent because she is angry; with the people who killed the villagers and with having to punish Theiss.” He folded his arms determinedly. “I will follow her wherever she goes; and I will protect her with my life should the need arise.” There was a silence following this. Farid did not waste words unnecessarily, like the similarly reticent Finn Corrigan, so when he spoke, the rest of the men tended to listen. Most of them were nodding, murmuring agreement.

Phillip was trying to stop himself laughing out loud at this point. He was imagining Chancellor Menzetti’s expression if he could hear these men speaking with such devotion of the princess that the Chancellor merely regarded as a nuisance. Almost managing to smother his amusement, he looked around at the men of Shadow Flight. He noticed Blaise Tessier, sitting back in the shadows, looking deeply pensive. Tessier had listened to the conversation without saying a word, which was highly unusual in itself. He was still trying to understand what impulse had driven him to not kiss the princess. Why not? Who wouldn’t want to kiss her? It sounded like most of the Flight would, given the opportunity. But the hurt he had seen in her eyes that night didn’t quite match up with the competent leader he was hearing about this evening. Puzzled, Tessier left quietly.

Phillip’s grin broadened as he watched Tessier depart. Having so recently moved from courtship to marriage himself, he thought it would be highly diverting to watch someone else go through the same pangs; especially if that someone was the previously unquenchable Blaise Tessier.

Raik’s voice intruded into Phillip’s thoughts as he heard the Commander advising the Flight on how to proceed with Jenevra. “You can’t keep ‘mothering’ her, you know, Brogan? You’ve got to get over that. You too, Bernardo. She’s not the little girl who used to follow us round.”

“I think we got that, Commander,” Brogan noted. “Right about when Theiss’s head disappeared into the mist.” He shook his head. “If we hadn’t tried to make sure she rested, she wouldn’t have had to do that.”

“Yes, she would.” Raik contradicted him. “You said so yourself. She’d already warned Theiss what the penalty would be. She had to follow that threat through, or lose the respect of the entire Flight. That’s not the problem. The problem is that you have to stop thinking of her as a girl, and just think of her as your Captain.” Remembering something, Raik glared at Brogan and Bernardo. “And you need to remember that she’s smart too. She knew you two were hiding something about the buttons you found in the village, and brought it up in front of the Emperor here, and the Dowager Empress. Jenevra’s foaming at the mouth about the Diruthians now, and we’re stuck with trying to keep her from causing an incident with Corros. Stop underestimating her. I told you that before.”

Richard and Stephan Couressime were still sitting there, stunned at this revelation of their baby sister as a Flight Captain, not only accepted by her Flight, but apparently adored.

Noting their bewilderment with more than a little empathy, D’Agostino broached the cask of ale Raik had carried in and handed them both full new tankards. “I’m afraid it’s time for some heavy drinking, my Lords. It’s the best way to deal with sudden shocks like Captain Couressime.”

Only Farid Jatar and Derian Ferris stayed back from the barrel: one because he did not drink, the other because he just couldn’t bring himself to.

Leaving Christiana’s rooms, Jenevra wandered through the Palace feeling pleasantly mellow. She could see the moonlight falling on the gardens, catching on the bronzed roof on the small family temple. Running lightly over the damp lawns, Jenevra made for the temple; catching hold of a thick marble pillar as she slid across the polished floor on wet feet. Grinning, she carried a small prayer lamp full of oil in with her from the side altar, and curled her feet up under her on one of the wide wooden benches facing the intricately carved altar; watching as the small light threw shadows around the room. It had fascinated her as a child, how each of the carvings seemed to blend into the next, creating scenes of legend that flowed in a continuous story. Nine large diamonds high on the front of the altar represented the story she had told at the Inn, of Tore throwing the stars into the sky: but here each star signified one of the regions that made the Empire. The two biggest stars near Tore’s hand were Maressia Major and Minor, with smaller ones lying in a circle around them: Lorthia, Abalos-Colles, Trevannta, Jantara, Bortka and Diruthia. But Jenevra’s favorite was the tenth diamond, the one she called “their” star, the star of Coural; smaller than the others, nestled cozily in between the Maressia stars: the tiny heart of the Empire as she liked to think of it. A peaceful expression emerging on her face, she cupped her hands over the tiny trails of green smoke, and began to pray.

The Emperor’s room was dark when Phillip entered; the fire banked low for the night, so he didn’t immediately notice his wife at the window.

“Phillip?” Christiana turned, giving him a radiant smile. “Good evening?”

“Oh, very enlightening,” he kissed her soundly. “You?”

“Yes, it was fine. It still seems a little strange to be Empress. I keep waiting for your mother to organize things, and she just looks at me.” Christiana sighed happily. “I guess I’ll just have to get used to giving orders!”

“Not too soon, thanks!” Phillip grinned, kissing her again. “I can only deal with one headstrong Couressime at a time.”

“Ah, but I’m a Marissun now, my darling,” she replied archly. “So you’ll just have to get used to it!” Christiana squirmed as he started nuzzling at her neck. “Not so fast, Your Imperial Majesty!” She wriggled out of his reach, moving back to the window. “I’m having far too much fun here!”

“Why, what’s going on?” Phillip came across wrapping his arms around her from behind, and looking over her shoulder at the shadowed gardens.

“Jenn and Tessier. No, no,” she reassured him quickly as Phillip’s eyebrows shot up. “Not like that—not yet anyway.” Christiana pointed down towards the Temple. “Jenn’s down there. She went into the Temple about, oh, half an hour ago, at least.”

“Yes, so?”

“See that shadow, right at the edge of the Palace wall, down by the terrace.” Christiana waited for Phillip’s eyes to discern the vague shape she was referring to. “That’s Tessier!” she announced triumphantly. “He’s just waiting there. Watching Jenn as far as I can tell, but he hasn’t gone into the Temple.”

“Stalking your sister? I’ll have him arrested!”

Christiana knew Phillip far too well to take that seriously, turning round in his arms to laugh with him. “I’m going to have so much fun with this Phil. All those comments I’ve put up with from her about you and me. I am really going to enjoy myself.” She paused for another kiss. “Until he breaks her heart, that is. Then I’ll be deeply sympathetic.”

“Really?” Phillip sounded disbelieving … with good reason. “What makes you think Tessier’s going to break Jenn’s heart? From what I’ve seen it’s more likely to be the other way around. Tessier’s not himself this time; and, believe me, I’m going to make the most of that!”

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Having run a somewhat hung over Shadow Flight through their paces, Jenevra dismissed them back in the yard. A piercing whistle attracted her attention as she saw Christiana waving at her from a window. Chuckling at thoughts of what Serena Massili would say if she heard the Empress whistling like that, Jenevra hurried up the stairs to her sister’s suite. Various renditions of “A proper Empress …” were jumping through her mind as Christiana’s maid opened the door to her. Without pausing, Christiana grabbed Jenevra by the hand and started rushing down the hallways with her, towards Jenevra’s own rooms. “Come on, Jenn! Will you move?” Christiana pulled harder.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting you ready.”

“Ready for what? I’m not doing anything … except taking a bath maybe.”

Christiana pushed her sister through the doors of her room, calling for Anna to have a bath drawn immediately, and hurrying across to the newly installed chest where Jenevra’s latest clothing collection was stored. Almost diving into it, Christiana was rummaging through it, obviously looking for something specific.

Jenevra shook her head, and shrugged. She had no idea what was going on.

“Ha! Here it is. I knew I’d ordered this for you.” Christiana held up a dark red tunic and trousers. Ignoring her sister’s frown, she pushed Jenevra towards her bath, pacing up and down as Jenevra washed rather hastily. “Quick! You haven’t got all day, you know.”

“For what?”

“Phillip called a meeting of all the Flight Captains for midday. You’ll be on time, if you hurry. You need to wear this.” She pointed to the red ensemble. “It should look really good on you.”

“Which doesn’t matter in the slightest,” Jenevra grumbled. “So, was anyone going to tell me about this meeting, or was I just going to be informed after the fact?”

“No, Phillip just assumed you’d still be in the Palace, you know, after he told you specifically not to leave it!” Christiana grinned as Jenevra winced, realizing that her usual training run had, in fact, been a direct breach of orders. “You’ll be fine, Jenn. I think I managed to take his mind off it.” Christiana clasped her hands together, smiling beatifically and opening her eyes wide in mock innocence. “Here,” she sat Jenevra on a chair near the fire. “Let me re-braid that for you. I’ll be quicker.”

Knowing that argument was pointless, Jenevra submitted to Christiana’s ministrations. Rather rapidly she found she was ready to go, although feeling highly self conscious in the new clothing, complete with new longer length black boots that reached over her knee. “It’s a bit tight, Chris,” Jenevra was pulling at the trousers and tunic which fit her like a second skin.

“That, my dear little sister is how you clog their thinking when you deal with men,” Christiana confided, looking her sister over with smug satisfaction, and opening up several more buttons on the front of the tunic. “Now go, protect, or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

Wrapping the ruby hilted Spirit Sword around her waist, Jenevra headed for the Council Chamber. Sliding in through the door with Commander Rabenaldt, Jenevra took her place at the table, next to Mikyle Manvi.

Phillip’s mouth was twitching. Blaise Tessier’s jaw dropping as Jenevra entered the room had been priceless. “Nice outfit, Captain!”

“Your Majesty is too kind,” Jenevra responded formally.

“Was the Empress involved in this at all?” Phillip asked innocently.

“I don’t know what makes Your Majesty think that, I’m sure.” Her eyes twinkled at him: they both knew Christiana’s penchant for improving people almost matched Serena Massili’s. “She may have suggested that the color might be appropriate.”

“Can you breathe at all?” Raik queried cynically. “Oh, Great Tore! Don’t do that, Jenevra!” as she took a deep breath to prove his point.

“I seem to be able to, Commander. Was there anything else we needed to discuss about my wardrobe? Nothing you’d like to add, Captain Tessier?”

Blaise Tessier managed to shake his head and choke, “Not a thing, Captain.”

“No!” Phillip seemed quite decided about that. “We need to discuss new assignments for the Flights.”

Raik and Jenevra had been expecting this after the meeting yesterday, but the other three Captains perked up at hearing it.

“Pichot,” Phillip turned to the arrogant man to his left. “I want your Flight here and very evident; increase the guard on duty by at least half. Organize it however you see fit, but I want nobody under any illusions about our strength.” Pichot nodded, already scratching notes on a paper in front of him. Despite Jenevra’s deep dislike of the man he was an excellent soldier and meticulously organized.

“Manvi,” Phillip turned to Lennia’s son. “I want you to head over to Trevannta to scout around for me. Roam around Maressia Major a bit too. I want the Empire to feel our presence all over it. Let them know I’m at the helm now. Anything unusual that you see, send a courier back.”

“Anything specific you had in mind, Majesty?” Mikyle asked quietly.

Phillip shook his head. “No, I’m just letting the people know we are here if we are needed. Feel free to drop in on any Barons or Counts you come across. They can provide food and shelter when necessary as part of their duty to the Crown. Of course, you can split your Flights up a little to cover the distances we’re talking about; just don’t get them too small. No less than two hundred men in any group. Commander Rabenaldt, you can travel around as you see fit. If one of the Flights needs help, I’m going to be relying on you to send it. The Border Patrol is a smaller unit anyway, so they can travel fast.” Phillip looked around at the assembled group. “Stay in touch with each other. If you need anything, you get word to Raik as fast as possible. Clear?”

Everyone nodded.

“Tessier,” Phillip’s eyes flickered to Jenevra and back. “Your Flight is going to Bortka. The people there definitely need some assurance that the Empire will look after them. Any hint—and I mean any—of Diruthian involvement in Bortka, and I want to hear about it. Do not take any action unless you absolutely have to. Get word to Raik immediately if you find anything.”

“Jenn …” Phillip looked a little nervously at her, not entirely certain how his unpredictable cousin was going to react now that her mission to Diruthia had been so obviously blocked. “I need you to take your Flight as escort to Prince Mikhail.” He paused as Jenevra’s eyes, so unnervingly like his wife’s, bored into his; and the other Captains sat up attentively. Every one of them could see the danger inherent in the princess protecting the man who’d challenged her right to be Imperial Protector. “He’s returning home to Abalos-Colles for his wedding.”

As no explosion appeared to be forthcoming, Phillip took a deep breath and plunged on. “And Lady Menzetti will be traveling too. Apparently she feels the need to return to the family estate in the south, near Mirizir. You need to get them both to their destinations safely.”

“And then?”

“And then, patrol the southern regions. Aleksander and Caddoc are willing, so you could go down through Abalos-Colles and Lorthia too.” Phillip looked at her expectantly.

“Problem, my Emperor?”

“Umm, no, I don’t think so. No problem with the assignments?”

“Should there be? If there’s nothing else, Your Majesty, I’ll have my Flight prepare to leave as soon as our guests are ready?”

“Not just yet, Captain; we have a few more details to discuss. Oh, and Jenn … there was one more thing. As you’ll already be down there, you can be the official Imperial representative at the wedding.”

“Wedding?”

“Mmm … Prince Mikhail and Princess Artela.” Phillip found a sudden need to look down at the papers he was shuffling on the table.

“As my Emperor commands.” Jenevra’s face was expressionless; her tone bland.

“Good, well, that’s settled then.” Phillip avoided Jenevra’s gaze as he moved into even deeper waters. “Now, before anyone goes anywhere, we will be holding the traditional games that accompany the formation of a new Flight. Just a couple of days. It won’t make much difference to any of your assignments.”

“It’ll make a difference to the terrified people in Bortka!” Jenevra cut in. “They need to see someone protecting them now.”

“You didn’t find any sign that the attack on Albor was anything other than a single incident, did you? Anything that would lead you to believe any other place was in specific danger of attack?” Phillip stood by the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“No, but that doesn’t mean there’s no threat.” Pushing her chair back, Jenevra rose, leaning forward onto the table, an intent expression on her face as she glared at her cousin. “Phillip!”

A darkly pointed glance from the Emperor halted her briefly.

Taking a deep breath she plunged on. “Your Majesty. You can’t just leave them. Not to play some sort of pointless game to keep this lot entertained.” Her hand swept dismissively around the table before landing with a sharp slap on the table.

“It’s not a game, Princess,” Captain Tessier objected swiftly. “It’s more in the nature of a test.”

“What? Test of what?”

“You, my dear Captain, what else?” Tessier’s smile widened as her saw the outraged protest forming in her eyes.

“Me?”

“Thank you so much, Captain Tessier.” Returning to his seat, Phillip hit Tessier sharply on the back of the head. “I think maybe we could have made that just a shade more diplomatic. Sit down, Captain,” he ordered, as Jenevra paced angrily around the room, arms folded tight against her chest.

“How could you?” She demanded. “How could you make me Imperial Protector and then tell me you don’t trust me; that you don’t believe anything I’ve told you? I don’t suppose any of them had to go through this nonsense?”

“They didn’t have anything to prove,” Raik’s brusque tone caught her attention. “Each of the Imperial Captains in here today has served long enough for me to have seen what they are capable of. Unless you’d like to dispute my opinions on that?” Raik’s gray eyes held hers until she shook her head. “The only unknown is you, Captain. Now I am pretty certain that I know what you can do, but no-one else here does. You’re going to have to prove something. That’s what these ‘games’ are for. Your chance to prove to everyone here—and in the Imperial Flights—that your position isn’t merely decorative.”

Always restless when agitated, Jenevra stalked over to the window and stared out of it. “How many times?”

“What?” Phillip was puzzled.

“How many times will I have to do this?”

“What d’you mean ‘how many times’?” The other Imperial Captains shrugged as their Emperor glanced around the table to see if any of them understood what the princess was asking.

Catching their looks, Jenevra sighed deeply, turning round to lean against the window sill. “Well, when Misha … Mikhail … challenged me for the Protectorship, you said, ‘it ends here’. I thought you meant it. I guess nothing ever really changes,” she said, remembering how she’d had to prove herself over and over again on the Island, and dismissing the thoughts. “Never mind. What exactly do I have to do?”

Phillip waved to Commander Rabenaldt to outline the task to all of them; noting the strange mix of regret and determination on her face. When Raik had finished his explanation, Phillip took over. “So, all three Flights will be camped out on the Plains, just south of Salanova. I think maybe what we will do is send one squadron from each Flight up to Bortka for now. That leaves you all still with even numbers, but will give us a visible presence where it’s needed. Will that suit you, my dear cousin?” He smiled slightly as Jenevra nodded.

“That’s it? All my Flight has to do is to reach the Emperor through three Flights worth of soldiers?” The princess rolled her eyes. “That’s the best you can come up with?”

“That’s over three thousand trained soldiers you’ll be trying to get past, Captain,” Mikyle Manvi reminded her. “You only have twenty or so, and you have to reach the Emperor, and do so while making a credible threat. If you can do that, then I guess we won’t have any cause to doubt that you could protect him against similar odds.”

Jenevra shook her head. “I have no idea how any of you survive with thinking like that. Fine, we’ll do it your way, pointless though it is. Anything else you want to throw at me now, before we get into this?”

“Only one,” Raik said. “Your Flight won’t be using weapons.”

Captains Manvi, Tessier and Pichot all began objecting at this point. Even they thought this was taking things too far. They had wanted to put one of their Flights with the princess’s Flight to push the numbers at least in the direction of being even, but Raik’s decision had been absolute, and now he was handicapping Shadow Flight even more.

“Commander, that’s hardly fair,” Mikyle Manvi leaned forward, concern creasing his forehead.

“Maybe not,” Raik agreed. “But there’s nothing else I can take away from Shadow Flight to give the rest of you a chance. You’ll all just have to do the best you can.” Although his face remained grave, Jenevra caught the flicker of a smile in Raik’s glance, as the Imperial Captains tried to work out if he’d just insulted them all. “It’s all up to you now, Captain,” he nodded at Jenevra. “We start at daybreak tomorrow. You have until sunset to capture the Emperor. Dismissed.”

“Princess! Captain Couressime! Wait!” Captain Tessier was running along the hallway after Jenevra. Catching up, he fell into step alongside her. In his regular brown uniform today, he looked sharp-edged and intense, with none of the usual indolence that he showed during Court functions. “I’m sorry the Emperor didn’t give you Bortka. I know you probably wanted to go back there. We heard most of the story last night.”

Jenevra’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Really? From who, Captain?”

“We had a drink with your Flight, Princess. The Emperor called us to join him with them. They told us just about everything that had happened … including Theiss.”

“I see. It’s a miracle the Emperor’s letting me out of the palace at all really, isn’t it, much less trusting me to get past three Flights?” Jenevra’s knuckles were white where she was gripping the hilt of the Spirit Sword. “Still, I suppose you were all highly entertained?”

“I think the Emperor is concerned. Not about your ability,” he added quickly. “He’s concerned that you’ll get too involved if you go back up to Bortka. It’s a difficult path for him to walk, Princess. On the one hand, he knows that you have the Flight totally behind you. Maybe too much so!” Tessier’s grin flashed through suddenly. “But, on the other hand, he knows that his wife and new in-laws will never forgive him if anything happens to you.”

“But they know it’s my choice!” Jenevra protested.

They walked out across the practice fields together. Many men from all flights were out drilling and practicing, instructing others, training new recruits. Tessier pointed over the archery field, where Finn Corrigan was working with Farid Jatar, training the men who didn’t have much experience with bows. “Jatar seems to have pledged himself to you. That’s a huge commitment. He doesn’t give his respect easily.”

“He was in your Flight?” Jenevra hadn’t known that.

Tessier nodded. “You really couldn’t have a greater compliment than Jatar’s acceptance. He’s a strange man: wicked with that sword of his, though.”

“It’s because I didn’t lie to the children at the inn.” Jenevra smiled at Tessier’s puzzled look. “I know,” she shrugged. “But it seemed to matter to Farid. His faith means a lot to him, I think; so he respects it in others. I like him. He’s a good man. So is Corrigan; the one with the longbow.”

“Ah, Pichot’s archery champion. We’ve all heard about that, Princess! Pichot was not happy.”

“I think you’d be surprised at how easily I can live with that, Captain.” She turned, walking towards the stables, wanting to know if Master Alvaro had any news about new stock. To her surprise and discomfort, Tessier stayed with her. So far, they had managed to be civil to each other, and had studiously avoided any mention of their last encounter, but how long could that last?

In the stables, everything was pristine. Laio and his friends seemed to be doing an excellent job. The horse’s coats were gleaming, hooves oiled and manes and tails groomed to the point of vanity. Saddles and bridles were hanging by every stall, polished and oiled, ready to go. The newest Imperial Captain was smugly proud as she noticed an impressed Captain Tessier making mental note to have his Flight’s barns spruced up to a similarly immaculate standard. Jenevra stopped at her horse. Scratching at his ears, she fed him two carrots from a bucket of them Laio had begun keeping at the door. The horse nuzzled into her, blowing softly through his nose. “We’ll be going soon,” she murmured. “You can run again as soon as we get out of here.”

“What’s his name?” Tessier was making conversation to distract himself from wishing she’d scratch his ears and talk to him in that same soft voice.

“Name?” Jenevra was puzzled. “Why would you want to give him a name?”

“It’s sort of traditional, Princess. I don’t know a man out there who hasn’t named his horse. Surely you named your ponies when you were small?”

She thought about it and shook her head slowly. “No, I never thought it made sense. Still … if you think I should … what do you think I should call him?”

“Are you making fun of me, Princess?” Tessier was having definite problems understanding where he was with this young woman. He’d seen that most of her Flight regarded her with a level of friendship that would certainly not exist in his own Flight, and she seemed to extend that casual level to the other officers. It was almost as though they all saw her as a little sister, and she treated them almost like brothers. Did she think of him as another brother, like Mikyle Manvi?

“Would I do that to you, Captain Tessier?”

“I suppose Shadow would just be too obvious?” He stepped up next to her, stroking the horse’s nose. “Mist, smoke, cloud? I don’t know.” Closing his eyes briefly, he tried to broach the subject that hung between them like an unseen cloud. “Princess … Captain ….?” He sighed deeply. “I know you probably have other things on your mind right now but, you remember the night you left for Bortka?”

Her face froze. Glacial blue eyes stared at him over the horse’s face.

Tessier swallowed. “I think maybe you misunderstood …”

“I remember, Captain!” she interrupted, embarrassed. “I understood completely.”

“No,” he moved around in front of her, willing her to look up at him. “No, you didn’t. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to kiss you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mumbled looking down at the floor. “Anyway, I have to go. I have a Flight to prepare for your stupid games.”

“Princess!” Tessier groaned. “Would you please just shut up and listen to me? It wasn’t that I didn’t want to kiss you. But with everything that had happened, it just felt like it would have been wrong. You were angry and upset; your emotions were all over the place. I could have kissed you, but I didn’t want you to hate me for doing something I thought you’d regret.”

“Of course I was angry. Ever since I came back, everyone’s expected me to behave as if I never left. I barely know my own family. It turns out I didn’t even know the person I thought was my closest friend—who then tries to kill me!” She stopped suddenly; blushing, biting her lip.

“Captain! You’re back!” Laio’s exuberant voice echoed through the stable, as the two Captains jumped guiltily apart. “We have new horses! Master Alvaro wants you to check them.”

“Right, Laio. Thank you. I’ll be there in a moment.” Jenevra drew a deep breath, turning to Tessier. “We both have Flights to concentrate on. Can we just agree not to mention this ever again, Captain? Let’s just call the whole issue closed.” Jenevra was all business again, although she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. She turned and walked quickly out of the stable, leaving Captain Tessier watching her thoughtfully, a half-puzzled, half-amused expression on his face.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Thumping on the doors of the Shadow Flight’s barracks slightly before dawn, and receiving no reply, Commander Rabenaldt pushed the heavy doors open, permitting himself a brief, satisfied smile before turning back to the men who had accompanied him. “They’re not here,” he announced, somewhat unnecessarily as they could all see the deserted room in front of them. “Mount up while I check on Captain Couressime’s rooms, then we leave for the Plain.” Finding Jenevra’s room empty too, Raik’s day began to feel significantly brighter. Bounding down the Palace steps two and three at a time, he vaulted into his saddle with the energy of a much younger man, eliciting strange glances from his men.

Emerging from the slowly waking city onto the rolling Plain of Salanova, Commander Rabenaldt called his Patrol into formation and gave them their instructions for the day. “We are merely observers, gentlemen,” he called clearly to them. “Our job is simply to make sure that no one in Shadow Flight uses a weapon, and that none of them are too badly hurt during the games.” His face and tone turned serious. “Most importantly, should anyone see Captain Couressime being hurt or handled inappropriately—you know what I mean—you are to step in immediately.” He grimaced, knowing how angry Jenevra would be if she heard that last order. “I very much doubt that we will have that problem, seeing as she’s already several steps ahead of all the other Flights, and she will give you trouble if you try to intervene, but those are the Emperor’s orders.” Glancing towards the horizon, where the sun was etching the trailing edges of the night’s clouds, tinting them with a gilded outline, Raik grinned again, touching his heels lightly to his horse’s sides. “Well, let’s go see if Shadow Flight has already won, shall we?”

From the top of a rocky outcrop overlooking the Plain, Jenevra watched the preparations of the three Flights intending to guard their Emperor. One foot up on a large boulder, she leaned forward, peering down at the milling men below them, shaking her head and making small noises of disapproval. All in gray as usual, the men of Shadow Flight blended into the rock face behind her, talking over their assignments in small groups. Tearing herself away from watching the Imperial Army, Jenevra straightened up, her hands automatically moving to adjust where the twin swords normally were over her shoulders. “I suppose we’d better get on with this,” she said, disgust still coloring her voice as it had the previous night when she’d explained her plan to the men. “Everyone clear as to what they’re doing, and when?”

The men nodded. Gervaise D’Agostino hooked his thumbs through his belt, complaining, “I still don’t like this, Captain. Are you absolutely sure we have to do it this way? It just feels so …” he searched for a word.

“Weak?” Jenevra supplied. “Unmanly?”

“Well, yes.” D’Agostino agreed.

“It is.” Jenevra nodded. “Or, at least that’s how they’ll all see it. That’s why they won’t expect it. We have to exploit their weaknesses, D’Agostino, and play to our strengths. Sadly for them, they don’t know what either of them is. But we do, and that’s why we have the advantage even though there’s over three thousand of them, and only twenty-odd of us. That’s why we’ll beat them.”

D’Agostino held his hand up in resignation. “I know, Captain. I know in my head that you’re right, I just don’t like it.”

“That’s alright.” The princess smiled sweetly at him, reaching up to pat him gently on the cheek. “You don’t have to like it any more than I do. The only thing that matters is that we win. That’s all that ever matters. Idiots can tell you that the way you do something is important but, at the end of the day, the victor is the one who writes the history books. If you lose, someone’s going to make you sound stupid no matter how brilliant or honorable you were.” Shrugging, Jenevra grinned at them all. “I’ve never lost, and I have no intention of starting now.”

“I don’t think any of the Imperial Captains have lost many battles either, Captain,” Brogan countered as they began to make their way down the far side of the hill. “And Captain Tessier definitely doesn’t take defeat graciously.”

“So he must have lost at some time for you to know that, Sergeant,” the princess reminded him. “Anyway, there’s one vital difference that you’re forgetting.” She gave him a wicked sideways smile as he looked expectantly at her. “They’re only men.”

Splitting Shadow Flight out into several small groups, Jenevra dismissed them to their pre-assigned tasks, reminding them all to stick to their plans no matter how hard it was. They disappeared into the early morning mists like wraiths, leaving the princess with two of the newest, youngest men; Alexander, known through the Flight as Sasha, and Simon, the talented blonde swordsman. Signaling silently to them, she led them out along the furthest edges of the rocky hills, almost invisible amidst the gray hues of the dawn; moving determinedly towards the main camp of the three Imperial Flights.

“Ssshh!” A harsh whisper cut through the air.

“Ssshh, yourself, Sasha,” a low voice muttered.

“Captain, please,” a third voice pleaded. “They’ll hear us. We need to get away from here.”

Sergeant Marin, waved his men quickly into silence as he listened for any further sounds in the bushes around them. Beckoning one over, he sent him back to the officers to let them know they might have spotted someone from Shadow Flight. Catching the sounds of rustling ahead of them, he motioned to his patrol to begin tracking.

In a little over half an hour, Captains Tessier and Manvi materialized behind them, along with about another fifty men. Pulling Sergeant Marin back a ways, they began to discuss what was happening. Sergeant Marin confirmed, they were indeed tracking the princess and two of her men; that they were a short distance ahead of them, apparently engaged in a heated discussion of their own. Tessier and Manvi exchanged congratulatory glances.

“Do we know what they’re saying?” Mikyle Manvi asked. “Did you get anyone close enough to them?”

Sergeant Marin nodded. “The princess seems to have two of her less experienced men with her, Sir. I don’t know why; seems pretty stupid to me. But even they’re arguing with her. Whatever she’s trying to get them to do, they don’t want to do it.” Pursing his lips disapprovingly he added, “She must have ordered all the others away. There’s no way Brogan would have left her with those two youngsters if he wasn’t following orders; it’s suicide. Well, you know what I mean, Sir.”

Captain Tessier stroked his fingers along his moustache and down his beard, thinking carefully. “See how close you can get someone, Marin. Let’s see if we can’t find out what her independent little Highness is up to, eh?”

“Are they still there?” Jenevra asked Simon under her breath, as the three of them squatted in a small circle near the rocks. Her back to the Imperial forces, she chanced a swift grin as Simon nodded. “Time to give them what they’re after then.”

Glowering superbly at her, Simon jumped to his feet, waving his hands around as if in anger. “Captain, I absolutely have to protest!” He said loudly. “We cannot stay here, so close to the Imperial forces. We have to get you to a safe distance. Sergeant Brogan said—”

Hands on hips, Jenevra faced Simon, cutting right across him. “Well, Sergeant Brogan isn’t here, is he? I run this Flight, Simon, not Brogan, and we are following my plan. The others should all be more or less in place now, and the last place any of those idiots,” she waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the Imperial camp. “Will be looking is inside the camp itself. They’ll all be busy chasing around the plain looking for us, they’ll never think we’re already inside, closing in on the Emperor.”

“Yes, but Princess,” Sasha tried to help. “That doesn’t mean you have to be here. What if they were to find us? It’ll all be over before it’s started if they capture you.”

“Oh, by all the gods, Sasha!” Jenevra erupted in apparent fury. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? And they’re not going to find us. Great Tore, Captain Tessier couldn’t find his own backside with both hands!”

Mikyle Manvi choked back a laugh, as Tessier looked indignant, and his men tried to hide their smirks. Sending one patrol back to advise the Imperial forces that Shadow Flight was already hiding amongst them, Captain Tessier’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he turned his attention back to the princess, his sword brushing against Manvi’s as he moved.

The small sound was all the incentive Jenevra needed. Spinning round, she focused a burning blue gaze directly at the bushes. Snapping her fingers at Simon and Sasha, the three of them sprang into action, taking off through the rock strewn paths at a sprint, as Tessier, Manvi and the fifty men of Marin’s patrol lumbered out of the bushes in pursuit.

It was quickly obvious to the men of Eagle Flight that they wouldn’t catch Jenevra and her men on foot. Everyone knew by now of Shadow Flight’s training, and knew that they could outrun anyone in any other Flight, both in speed and endurance.

Thinking quickly, Sergeant Marin had sent ten of his men back towards their camp some time earlier, anticipating that horses might be needed, and within minutes they returned, leading enough horses each for everyone. Complimenting his Sergeant on his forethought, Captain Tessier swung into his saddle, determined to make the princess pay for her comment. Unaware that the object of his irritation was currently watching him from a rocky ledge, making sure he didn’t miss the direction she was headed in, Tessier muttered curses under his breath, much to Mikyle Manvi’s amusement.

“D’you think they saw us?” Jenevra asked Simon and Sasha, as the three of them stood together watching the mounted patrol. Sighing lightly, the princess nodded towards Sasha. “Just give those stones a kick, Sasha. Let’s send up a little dust cloud, just to make sure they find us.”

Laughing as they saw the patrol swerve, changing direction to head for them, the three ran easily across the scree, to the base of one of the first decent sized mountains of the Coural range.

“We are sure this is the right one, aren’t we, Captain?” Simon asked as they began to pull themselves up onto the rock face. “They will know about that path that will take them to the top?”

Jenevra grinned across at them both. “They should do. It’s really well known. They should be there, disgustingly smug at having outwitted us, by the time we reach the plateau. Don’t forget to be nice and angry with me when we get there! Now, get climbing. You’ve got to get there just ahead of me for this to be perfect.”

Blowing strands of hair out of her face as her hands scrabbled for a grip on the ledge; Jenevra peered over it as she hauled herself up. “Thanks, you know a hand wouldn’t have gone amiss there.” She stopped short, cursing, as she straightened up and saw Simon and Sasha being held at sword point by Captain Tessier’s men.

Captain Tessier and Captain Manvi were both standing there, watching her: Manvi with amusement; Tessier hovering somewhere between anger and satisfaction.

“I told you, Captain!” Simon protested. “But you wouldn’t listen.”

“She never bloody listens,” Sasha growled.

Jenevra merely glared darkly at them, biting on her lip as Captain Tessier came towards her.

“Apparently, Captain Couressime, I’m not quite as incapable of finding things as you would like to think,” he snapped. “And now that we’ve found you, you’ll be accompanying us back to the Emperor’s tent. It’s a shame, really. I rather thought you’d last a little longer than this.” He stood in front of her, his arms folded, until she wondered what he was waiting for and looked up at him, a mutinous frown on her face. A cold smile appeared on Tessier’s face as she met his gaze; as if he felt he’d won some sort of battle. “Your hands, Captain.” Tessier held his hand out, snapping his fingers at her. “Tie their hands too,” he ordered the men holding Simon and Sasha. “As they’re all so fond of running, they can run back to the camp with us.” Ignoring Mikyle Manvi’s warning glance, Captain Tessier bound Jenevra’s wrists tightly on top of each other and pulled her across the small plateau towards the horses. From his saddle he reached down and hoisted her up across in front of him. Leaning down towards his stirrup where her head was, he said softly, “I might not be able to find my own backside, Princess, but I’ll be enjoying yours all the way back to camp.”

Slapping her sharply on the bottom, one hand remaining on the small of her back, holding her in place; he nudged his horse into a steady trot down the mountain path, a genuine smile finally breaking through as he heard her swearing sulfurously at him.

Luckily for Captain Tessier, most of the comments he made on the ride back to the main camp were completely lost to the princess as she simply couldn’t hear him over the noise of the horses. Uncomfortable as she was, she had managed to make eye contact with Sasha and Simon on a couple of occasions to let them know she was all right; for the plans to go ahead as they had discussed. The men of Captain Tessier’s Flight were running Sasha and Simon behind their horses, and Jenevra was delighted to see that her men could more than keep up, and that they responded to the taunts and jibes of the Eagle Flight men with the responses they’d talked about earlier.

There was a small river between them and the camp, with only one way to cross it—a deep ford. Knowing that Simon and Sasha were both excellent swimmers, and that they were attached to the other men by ropes, Jenevra didn’t worry about either of them. Ignoring whatever Captain Tessier was laughing about, Jenevra grinned, sending a silent prayer of thanks to the gods who’d sent Laio to her stables. As arranged, the young lad had made sure that a sharp blade was hidden in a slit in the base of Tessier’s leather stirrup cup, in the anticipation that at some point after she had allowed Tessier to capture her she would be able to get to his horse. Picking it out, carefully, still cost the princess a couple of deep nicks to her fingers but she put the pain aside, focusing on cutting through the ropes around her wrists. That done, she began on the girth bands of the horse, leaving a few final strands to hold the saddle in position until she was ready to make her move.

Slightly frustrated by the lack of response from the girl draped over his saddle, Captain Tessier took a brave decision, and headed his horse to the deepest part of the fordable river crossing. A mischievous smile appeared as he urged the horse into a canter, jumping down the bank into the rushing waters. “Hang on, Princess!” He shouted, as she spluttered through a mouthful of water.

The men of Eagle Flight crossed quickly and easily at the shallow end of the ford, and sat their horses on the far bank, watching in astounded amusement that their Captain would dare to treat the princess that way. Simon and Sasha; soaked after their trip through the ford on foot, caught each other’s eye momentarily and grinned.

With his horse up to its chest in the surging river, Captain Tessier took the opportunity to lean down towards the princess. “Enjoying the ride, Your Highness?” He queried, audaciously.

One hand on the horse’s side, just above its front leg, Jenevra levered herself up enough to glare at him. “You’re going to regret this Tessier,” she snarled up at him; the effect somewhat lessened by another splash of water in her face. “I promise you.”

“Really?” Tessier taunted. “You and whose army, Princess?”

Before he could right himself in the saddle, Jenevra’s hand struck up from underneath the horse, pulling Tessier’s jacket enough to completely unbalance him. The sudden shift in weight was enough to snap the remaining fibers holding the girth bands, and the saddle slipped completely off the horse’s back, taking the Captain with it. As Tessier floundered about in the water, Jenevra caught hold of the horse’s mane and pulled herself onto the animal’s back, guiding with reins and knees, pushing the horse for the bank they’d just left. From the ridge of the bank she turned the horse and shouted back to Captain Tessier who had regained his feet, waterlogged and furious in the middle of the river.

“Really!” She yelled. “I am my army, Captain, didn’t you know? See you at the Emperor’s tent!” Wheeling the horse, the princess galloped back towards the forest, leaving a frustrated Eagle Flight behind her, knowing they couldn’t catch her once she reached the trees.

The main camp formed by the three Imperial Flights out on the plain, was a hive of activity. As soon as word had reached them that most of Jenevra’s Flight was already hidden inside the camp, chaos had broken out as they turned everything inside out looking for them.

Raik and his patrol sat their horses on a small rise just outside the camp; the Imperial Commander had laughed out loud as he had watched the camp almost disintegrate in front of his eyes. Rather disappointed that his men couldn’t see the tactics behind what was going on, he wiped his eyes, and led them into the camp, heading for the large tent in the center where Phillip was waiting. A group of men stood outside the tent, arguing loudly and generally protesting at whatever was happening, although Raik couldn’t see what it was. At his approach the men parted to let him through, and Raik saw that, in the middle of a large patrol from Reiff Pichot’s Flight, was a small contingent from Jenevra’s. It was Jenevra’s men who were protesting so loudly and, just as Raik reached the entrance to the tent, Phillip also appeared demanding to know what the furor was about.

Kallan Bana pushed forward, hands bound in front of him. “Excuse me, Your Imperial Majesty,” he said, trying to bow, rather awkwardly to his Emperor. “But this just isn’t fair.” Signaled to continue by Phillip, Kallan continued. “We weren’t really given any say in joining this Flight, Your Majesty. I know you said we didn’t have to join, but none of us would want to let you down when you asked something of us, so we did it. We stayed with Her Highness.” The men around him muttered their agreement. “But, Your Majesty,” Kallan continued, flicking his hair back from his face. “Not meaning any disrespect to the princess, sire, but really … we’re a laughing stock. Her ideas aren’t sensible; and we have to follow her orders even when they result in all of us being captured, like this.” He gestured around at his fellow Flight members. “It’s really unfair, sire. We didn’t join the Imperial Guard for this; to be ordered around by a young girl … even if she is a Princess. We want out of this unit, Your Majesty. I think you’ll find we all feel the same way, if you ask all of the men.” Kallan looked down, as if ashamed of his words, but the men around him still murmured in consensus.

“I see.” Phillip clasped his hands behind his back and walked through the men. Tall and dark, he looked somber as he asked, “And you all feel this way, do you?” As the men mumbled that they did, the Emperor turned and looked at Raik, no mention of the evening when they had all stated their devotion to the princess crossing his lips. “What do you think, Commander?” He asked. “I mean, I can see their point.”

Certain that he saw a glimmer of something in Phillip’s eyes, Raik drew himself up to his full height, authority in every element of his bearing. “I agree, Majesty, in that I also can see their point, but …” he hesitated as if giving it serious consideration. “Would it not be fair to wait and have Jenevra’s input too? She is the one who is being maligned here, after all.”

“True, true,” Phillip nodded. “But I don’t want this getting all over the camp. I think what we need to do is bring every member of Shadow Flight who is captured to me, in my tent. I will interview each man as to his opinion—which he may express freely,” he added to the men gathered around listening. “By the time the Imperial Protector is here, maybe we will be able to discuss this in a more informed manner. Meantime, these men already here will remain bound in my tent, so their words cannot affect any of the others before I speak to them.” With a satisfied expression, Phillip turned and entered the large tent, beckoning Raik in behind him.

As the men from Shadow Flight were being brought in from various parts of the camp, Phillip took the chance to speak quietly to Raik. “What’s she up to?”

Hiding his grin under pretence of coughing, Raik muttered, “I’m not entirely sure, Phillip, but there is far too much confusion around here for her not to be behind it somewhere. Misdirection and confusion are two of a soldier’s greatest weapons; we just forget to train with them on a regular basis. I think Jenn might just be giving them all a swift lesson in humility.” The two men shared a long amused look, and sat down to await further developments in the day.

By noon, forewarned by the appearance of Lieutenant Jann Crevaux of Tessier’s Eagle Flight who brought Sasha and Simon to join the rest of Shadow Flight, Raik and Phillip did their best to hide their mirth when Captain Tessier arrived, still slightly damp from his dunking in the river, and spewing curses about the princess under his breath. When they had pulled the story out of the very reluctant Tessier, however, they couldn’t hide their laughter. Angered anew by the sniggering of the men of Shadow Flight, Tessier swore fluently, and stalked out of the tent, determined that he would bring the princess in, tied and trussed like a chicken, if it killed him. Barking orders at his men, they began swarming all over the camp. At some point, he reckoned, she would have to try to get into the camp. Well, he would have eyes everywhere. Just let her try.

In fact, Jenevra was already on her way into the camp. Riding hard and fast from the river, she had changed her uniform for one belonging to the House of Wargentin, and had ridden straight into the middle of Conall Wargentin’s Honor Guard, as they headed to the camp, ostensibly to see the day’s events but, in actuality, as pre-arranged between Jenevra and Conall. The two of them had quickly developed a firm friendship, finding common ground as the two dark, smaller versions of their own larger-than-life, flamboyant siblings. The thought of the princess bringing down the infuriatingly self-confident Captain had merely added spice to the situation for Conall, and his men had been warned to say nothing of the extra soldier riding with them directly into the heart of the camp. In the tumult of their arrival into the already hectic camp, it was easy for Jenevra to slip away into a smaller tent, changing clothes once more. Watching and waiting carefully, she saw her Flight’s groom, Laio, walking into a nearby tent. Swinging a cloak with a deeply cowled hood around her, she timed her run to Laio’s tent perfectly, bumping into one of Tessier’s men on her way. Looking away quickly, she growled at him in a deep voice, and ran into the tent. Not fooled for an instant, the soldier hastened to his Captain, telling him what he’d seen. Tessier’s eyes narrowed with a grim satisfaction. There was nowhere for her to run to. He had her now. Striding into the tent, he snatched hold of the cloaked figure carefully cutting a slit in the back of the canvas as an escape route, and dragged her directly towards the Emperor’s tent.

Raik and Phillip looked up with interest as Tessier entered the tent, pulling his captive with him.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Tessier announced in his most self-righteous tone. “I believe we can call these ‘games’ to a halt. Her Imperial Highness has, most unfortunately, failed in her mission.”

“Really?” Commander Rabenaldt queried. “You’re quite sure about that are you, Captain?”

“Absolutely.” Tessier stood before his Emperor and Commander confidently.

“And this would be?” Raik indicated the figure standing in Tessier’s grip.

A frown crossed Tessier’s face. “This would be Her Highness, Captain Couressime, or whatever it was we were calling her. I suppose it’ll have to be back to Princess from now on.”

Accepting a goblet of wine from a young page at his side, Raik raised his eyebrows. “You’re certain, Captain Tessier?” He turned and glanced at Phillip, who was also taking a goblet of wine. “Well, if you’re sure, I think a toast is in order, don’t you, Your Majesty?”

Resuming his complacent stance, Tessier took two goblets of wine from the page’s tray. “One mustn’t be ungracious in victory,” he said, smugly, offering the drink to the cloaked figure next to him. “Your Highness?”

“It’s very kind of you, Captain, sir,” said Laio, pushing back the hood of the cloak. “But I’m sure the Captain wouldn’t want me drinking on duty.”

Before Tessier could utter a word, Jenevra’s voice cut through the silence. “Quite right, Laio. Well done.”

“You …” Tessier spluttered.

“Have the Emperor. Yes, I do,” Jenevra smiled gently at him, while standing next to her cousin with a knife at his throat, dressed in a page’s uniform. “Doesn’t that mean I win, Commander?” She asked Raik sweetly.

“Not yet, it doesn’t,” Tessier said. Opening his mouth to call for his own men, he suddenly found Simon at his side, holding a knife.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you, sir,” Simon said politely. “Or I might be forced to hurt you.”

“What the …?” Tessier spun round, taken aback to see the whole of Shadow Flight standing, unbound, armed and ready, behind him.

“I think we’ll have to concede that the princess has won this one, Captain,” Raik nodded thoughtfully. “And you can put that knife down now, Jenn. We don’t need any Imperial Protector ‘accidents’ with the Emperor, do we?”

Grinning, Jenevra reversed the knife and handed it to Phillip, perching on the arm of his chair as she did so. “Nice work,” she told the Flight. “I know you didn’t like the plan, but you stuck to it, and we won; just like I told you we would. Now,” she said. “Anyone still feel like leaving the Flight?”

The men laughed, slapping each other on the back and generally congratulating themselves.

Phillip held a hand up to quiet the mass of people. As they began filing out of the tent, he moved across to where Blaise Tessier stood, dazed at the turn of events, and rage against the princess building once more. The Captain couldn’t remember anyone ever making such a fool of him; certainly never a woman. Something of his thoughts must have been showing in his face because Phillip quietly reminded him that some sort of congratulations was due to the princess from him. “I expect you to treat this like you would if it had been anyone else, Tessier. A firm handshake, and let it go. She beat you fair and square by using your own prejudices against you. You wouldn’t hold any resentment if it was Pichot or Manvi; you’d best not hold any for … what is it we’re calling her? Captain Couressime?” Punching him lightly in the shoulder, Phillip locked eyes with Tessier. “Don’t let me down, Blaise.”

Understanding the advice not to let his anger get the better of him, Captain Tessier congratulated the princess briefly, but politely, and left her to celebrate with her Flight.

Much, much later that evening, Captain Tessier was walking around the ground of the Palace, trying to clear his head from the surfeit of wine and ale he’d drunk in an effort to put the day behind him. He had drunk enough to begin to see some the funny side of the things that had happened, but not quite enough to forgive the princess for fooling him: certainly not enough to forgive her for tipping him into the river although, even as he thought about it, a smile began to break through. From the solemn child he had met at Frann, she was definitely showing more of a spark than he’d ever thought to see. Wandering along the path that ran around the lake, Tessier noticed that he was very close to the Imperial Family’s own Temple; a small, but beautiful building normally regarded as the private sanctuary of the Marissuns. Realizing that he could use some time sitting down to help clear his head, Tessier slipped quietly in to the Temple, slumping onto the nearest bench he could find in the shadows. The peaceful interior was lit only by two large prayer lamps, sitting on the altar, and he sat for some moments letting the green glow hypnotize him in his inebriated state. As his eyes began to close, Tessier heard voices entering the front of the Temple, and drew back into the shadows. Whilst not exactly forbidden to senior members of the Imperial staff, the Temple was, above all else, the private sanctuary of the Imperial family.

“… did well today, Jenn.” Raik Rabenaldt’s voice came into hearing. Tessier recognized the voice of his Commander, and perked up quickly.

“Really?” The sardonic answer was unmistakably from the princess. “And what is it, exactly, that you all gathered from today’s charade?”

The two walked in front of the altar, standing outlined by the green glow of the lamps. Jenevra leaned forward, cupping the incense and sending a silent prayer up. A third figure moved into sight.

“You ran through three Imperial Flights as if they weren’t there, and annoyed Tessier to a degree I’ve never seen before,” Phillip’s voice held an amused tone. Leaning back against the altar rail and folding his arms, he glanced across at his cousin. “Personally, I thought you were brilliant.”

“And you don’t have any problem with what happened … with what I did?”

Tessier wasn’t sure what the tone was in the princess’s voice, but it sounded strangely close to contempt.

With no reply forthcoming from Raik or Phillip, Jenevra spoke again. “So, it doesn’t concern you at all that, not only could I have effectively paralyzed the Empire this afternoon, but every last man out there was so busy trying to catch one solitary person, that they completely forgot about everything else.” Her anger raised a notch. “Three thousand men all focused on one objective—me— and you don’t see the problem? It was not a game! Anything could have happened today, simply because you felt some macho compulsion to make me ‘prove’ myself.”

“Hang on,” Phillip interjected. “It wasn’t exactly like that.”

“Yes, it was.” Jenevra snapped back at him. “Manvi and Pichot were so amused by the ‘game’ they couldn’t organize their Flights to do anything properly.”

Raik nodded, scratching at his beard. “True.”

“Tessier was so bound and determined to get hold of me that he made any number of stupid mistakes, including letting me get into your tent with a knife. How many times has that happened before; that he would make that kind of mistake?”

“Rarely,” Raik admitted. “But, Jenn, you have to understand. They needed to see what you can do. They wouldn’t have believed it otherwise.”

“They don’t need to!” Jenevra’s voice rose again. “It doesn’t matter what they think. Not for one minute. All that matters is that I can do the things Phillip needs, and keep him safe. I don’t care what your Captains think of me. It’s irrelevant. I’ve wasted an entire day on this stupid game, for what purpose? Manvi and Pichot still think I’m a joke, and Tessier will be looking for revenge of some kind. How is that helping me? How is that protecting Phillip? It’s just like being back on the Island,” she stormed. “It doesn’t matter how many times I prove myself; how many times I win, it will never be good enough. I will always have to justify myself to them. Well, I don’t have the time, or the patience, for that right now, so you’re all going to have to get over it!”

There was silence for a moment, and then some muttered exchange as Raik left them.

Phillip said. “All right, Jenn. Let’s get down to business then, shall we? Aleksander and Corros … you’ll send a full report back?”

Tessier could see the princess, faintly outlined by the glowing green smoke, turn to look at her cousin. “You didn’t write that down, did you?” She said, looking disbelievingly at a paper in his hands. “Honestly, Phil,” she sighed. “What’s the use of having your very own spy when you won’t follow the rules? Don’t write it down! It’s called plausible deniability—ask Lord Menzetti.”

Tessier could hear the princess teasing her cousin, as they turned to move out of the Temple again. Far more clear-headed after listening to this private conversation, he sat stroking his beard and contemplating what it might mean to him to know that the stubborn Princess was also the Emperor’s personal spy.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Captains Manvi and Tessier led their Flights through the streets of Salanova in formal procession. Burnished helmets, spears and lances gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight as they paraded through cheering crowds who were now in the mood to celebrate anything emerging from the Palace.

From the top Council chamber in the south wing of the Palace, Jenevra watched until the two Flights began crossing the Plain of Salanova where they split; Manvi heading straight out across Maressia, Tessier turning north towards Bortka.

Brogan’s voice cut across her thoughts. “They’re ready to leave as soon as you are, Captain.”

“Tomorrow, at dawn, then. If Lady Menzetti’s traveling in a carriage it will slow us down a little, so the earlier we can set off the better.”

The gruff Sergeant nodded. “Captain, forgive me for asking, but are you going to be alright with this? Prince Mikhail, I mean. You know, after the other night …”

Acknowledging his concern, she nodded. “We’ve already talked about it. We both know where we stand, I think. It shouldn’t be a problem for this journey anyway. If you could tell the men the plan is to leave in the morning, I’ll go check Lady Menzetti’s going to be ready. I’ll see you and the rest of the Flight at sunrise.”

The mist was starting to lift as the Flight crossed the river and turned south for the first part of their journey, to Lady Menzetti’s family estate in the south of Maressia Major. The road was an easy one; most of Maressia was well served with roads built by an industrious Emperor in a previously peaceful time. With Lady Menzetti in a carriage they made good time, the men were relaxed and rested; their mood good. After the horror of Albor Jenevra thought it was probably a good thing Phillip had given them this task. It would allow some of them to put the massacred village behind them. Dillon would obviously take longer. She could see shadows under his eyes and Brogan had told her he’d been angry that they weren’t going back to Bortka. Some of the other less experienced and younger members of the Flight would also have been more affected, but not understanding it yet. As they rode, Jenevra talked it over with Brogan, making sure the older men Flight knew to look out for the others.

“And you’re dealing with it, Captain?” Brogan asked. “No, I’m not ‘mothering’ you, but you are younger than all of them!” He shrugged. “Just making sure we’re looking out for everyone.”

Jenevra looked straight ahead, her eyes distant. “I’ve seen worse, Brogan,” she said softly. “I was at Gassendi.”

“What in the names of all seven gods were you doing there?” Brogan was truly horrified. “How? Why were you there?”

Gassendi was in the Jantara region: a Duchy with indistinct boundaries that had caused a serious dispute between two neighboring nobles. The situation had escalated rapidly into a siege of one castle. The town surrounding the castle had been starved and massacred, with the bodies thrown into the besieged castle causing disease and the swift surrender of the Duke of Gassendi. That hadn’t been the end of it, though. The attacking duke had shown no mercy to anyone in the castle, slaughtering all within its walls horribly, including the Duke of Gassendi and his entire family. Not a servant, not even an animal had been spared. Imperial troops riding to break the siege under Arrilia Neilla’s orders had ridden in to a charnel house of death and disease. No-one who had seen Gassendi ever forgot it. In the recent history of the Empire it was without doubt one of the worst incidents; a prime example of why Phillip wanted to let his nobles know that his hand was firmly on them.

“I went with my mentor,” Jenevra told Brogan. “We’d heard there would be a siege, and we knew that the Duke of Tabor was mentally unstable.” She nodded as Brogan raised his eyebrows at this. “The Order gets all kinds of information, Brogan. It’s not all military. Tabor had a disease that was eating his brain away. What he did was appalling, but he really had no cognition of his actions. His men should have stood up to him, but they knew he would kill them too.” She paused as Mikhail cantered forward to join them; welcoming him coolly with a glance. “We were just discussing Gassendi.”

Mikhail’s face grew grim. “Was Albor like that?”

“No, thankfully. It was bad enough, but nothing could compare to Gassendi.”

“But why were you at Gassendi, Captain? I don’t understand what purpose your Order had in sending you there.” Brogan frowned. “What did they hope to achieve?”

“We hoped to be in time to break the siege—maybe even preventing it before it started.” Jenevra looked across at Brogan who had his next question forming on his lips. “Our ship didn’t get us there in time. It was almost over by the time we reached them. We did what we were sent to do anyway.”

“Which was?” Brogan prompted.

“To kill Tabor.” She said simply. “If we’d reached Gassendi on time we would have killed him before he could set the siege up. But we didn’t. Killing Tabor after the event was just putting him out of his madness before the Empress had a chance to do it.”

“So you were going there to assassinate Tabor?”

“Exactly,” Mikhail said. “It’s often the most effective way to stop problems happening. Take away the person giving the orders and the plan just crumbles.”

“So, you were what?” Brogan did some quick calculations in his head. “Seventeen, eighteen? That’s crazy. Sending anyone that age into that situation, much less a—”

“Girl? We’re not back to that are we?” Jenevra glared at him. “Seventeen, actually. Without that experience you’d probably have had hysterics on your hands at Albor, so you really should try to appreciate the benefits of my training, obscure though its reasons may seem to you.” She swung her horse around. “I’m going to see how Lady Menzetti’s doing.”

Laio was driving the team, having suggested that they would need him along to look after the horses on an extended trip like this one. Reluctantly, Jenevra had agreed. He was good at what he did, and Bernardo seemed to be taking the young lad under his wing too. Laio grinned as the Captain rode up alongside. The princess was on her regular horse, a dappled gray with a smooth pace. Most of the Flight now rode gray or black horses, although Wulfgar’s bulk made him difficult to mount on anything smaller than large carthorses.

“Lady Menzetti!” Jenevra called in through the open window of the carriage. “Is everything alright? Do you need anything?”

Graea Menzetti’s head appeared, bright gray eyes gazing clearly at the princess. She smiled. “Actually, Your Highness, I’d really like to get out of this for a while. Do you think I could ride?”

“Oh,” Jenevra was startled by the request. She couldn’t think of any other lady she knew who was still riding in her seventies; but she was starting to think that Lady Menzetti wasn’t like too many of the other ladies she’d ever met. “Er … Laio, do we have anything suitable for Lady Menzetti to ride? I don’t think we have any sidesaddles with us though, Lady Menzetti,” she apologized.

“That’s fine, Princess. I always rode astride when I was a girl, you know. I’m very accustomed to it, even if my family seems to think I’m too fragile to be allowed to get on a horse these days.”

“Captain,” Laio said from his position at the front of the carriage. “I really think your horse would be the best for Lady Menzetti. He’s the best size and temperament. You could ride any of the spare horses we brought. There’s a really frisky black I think you’d like back there.”

“Fine, I’ll go get it. Are the spare saddles in Bernardo’s wagon?” She cantered off to the back of the column where several of the men were towing strings of horses behind them. Spotting the black horse being led on his own by Kallan Bana, the horseman from northern Maressia, she rode over to Bernardo’s wagon and grabbed a new saddle and bridle.

Kallan quickly saddled and bridled the horse while Jenevra held its head, speaking softly to it all the time. He was quite a big horse and restive, prancing lightly on his front hoofs all the time: his coloring an unusual mix of coal black coat with an almost silver mane and tail; four silver socks and a blaze of silver down the front of his nose. The horse jumped around as Jenevra swung up easily onto his back. Kallan grinned at the look of delight on his Captain’s face as she felt the horse’s strength. “Give him time, Captain,” he said. “He’s a good horse, just needs to be ridden regularly to settle him down.”

“Will you take my horse back up to the carriage for Lady Menzetti, Kallan? I think we need to go for a bit of a run to get acquainted.” She patted the horse’s glossy neck with one hand. “Tell Brogan not to panic. I won’t go far.” Turning the horse, she took off at a full gallop, thundering out across the Plain, exulting in the power and freedom this horse brought her.

As Brogan noticed the black horse disappearing off to his right, he looked around, frowning. Kallan was coming towards him, having left Finn Corrigan helping Lady Menzetti. “Captain Couressime is just stretching out her new horse, Sergeant,” Kallan called as he drew near. “She said not to worry, she’ll be back soon.”

Brogan shook his head and sighed. “Follow her, Kallan. Don’t come back without her.” He turned to Mikhail. “I know that I know the answer to this question, but is she always like this?”

“Yes,” Mikhail laughed.

As their laughter subsided, Brogan asked, more seriously, “Was Gassendi really as bad as they say? I mean, Albor was bad, but she just seemed to be angry, not upset.”

Mikhail considered the question. It was the first time the brusque Sergeant had really directed any comment towards him, and Mikhail still wasn’t sure exactly where he stood with him. The rest of the Flight was icily courteous, but had obviously not forgiven him for challenging their Captain. “Gassendi was horrific,” he said simply. “None of us slept properly for weeks afterwards; but Jenna was no worse than any of us. She dealt with everything she had to when we there. The Order doesn’t allow any difference for age or gender. Ability is the only thing you are measured by; and she’s one of the best … in every way.” He chuckled ruefully. “It was a little galling to have a young girl come in and achieve what had taken most of us years of training in about half the time. I’d already been training for over three years when they made her my training partner, and I have to admit I wasn’t too happy about it at first. Some of the other trainees tried to do anything they could to make her fail. Most of them ended up being the one who failed. She can be very determined when she wants something. But rarely upset. I don’t think I could honestly say I’ve ever seen her upset. Angry … oh yes … but not truly upset. But she’s totally committed to the duty the Order laid on us, and she tends to work through her emotions. Like this,” Mikhail gestured around at the Flight; a tightness around his eyes. “Give her something to work on and she can put most things, or people, behind her. It’s uncanny at times just how focused she can be. Not to mention a little hurtful when you find out your own less than central place in her great scheme of things.” His eyes shadowed as he thought about his own diminished relationship with the princess.

“Behind, or just buried?” Brogan wondered. “I know she’s self-reliant. She has been since she was very young. But what if all these things are just building up inside her? One day it might all just come pouring out—or she’ll crack under it all.”

“Well, just make sure you’re not in her direct line if and when that happens,” Mikhail advised. “And try to keep her away from breakable things, like people, cities, small mountain ranges, you know …” Mikhail’s grin vanished as he broke off suddenly, clutching at his chest, his face turning ashen.

“Your Highness! What is it?” Brogan grabbed at the Prince who seemed about to fall out of his saddle. “Mikhail! Talk to me. Damn it, Baudoin,” he barked at the curly-headed climber riding on the far side of the Prince. “Get the other side of him!”

Mikhail was hunched over, almost unconscious; his breathing shallow and erratic.

“Laio!” Brogan roared. “Get that carriage up here now!”

As they dragged Mikhail from his horse and into the carriage, Laio pulled back the soft leather front of the roof to let more light into it.

“Gods, he looks awful,” Brogan sounded worried. “The Captain’ll be furious if anything happens to him while she’s supposed to be getting him home safely.”

“You don’t think any of the Flight would have …” Baudoin suggested, miming tipping a bottle into Mikhail’s mouth.

“Risk the wrath of the Captain, after Theiss? Absolutely not.”

“Out of the way, gentlemen; I’ll deal with the Prince.” Graea Menzetti pulled up outside the carriage. “I have an idea what’s wrong with him, and it’s not poison. If it’s what I think it is, then the princess may also be in trouble. You go—” she looked after them as they flung themselves back onto their horses and raced off. “And find her.”

The entire Flight was standing around, ominously armed, when Brogan, Baudoin and Kallan came back into view. Baudoin was leading the black horse, rider-less. The princess lay barely conscious in Kallan’s arms; her face the same ghostly color as Mikhail’s.

“No time to panic, gentlemen.” Graea Menzetti took charge once more. “I think that if we can get to Mirizir quickly, my house will be the best place for them to recover. The Imperial palace will be too full of prying eyes and ears. It shouldn’t take more than a few days if we keep to the roads.”

“Lady Menzetti, do you actually know what’s wrong with them?” Bernardo had arrived at the carriage, and was hovering over the stricken pair.

The Chancellor’s wife laid a hand over his arm. “I have a suspicion of what it might be. It’s not definite; but it may not be over yet. We need to move.”

“Keep them in the carriage.” Brogan instructed. “If you ride with them, my Lady, you’ll let us know if we need to stop? We’ll set as fast a pace as the horses can stand. Laio, you let me know if we need to change or rest the horses.”

As the Flight remounted and set off at a fast pace towards the south-eastern coast of Maressia, Bernardo rode alongside the carriage, ready to respond to anything Lady Menzetti should need.

Graea Menzetti had quickly pushed blankets and cloaks alongside both Jenevra and Mikhail to make sure they couldn’t roll off the seats they were lying on. Mikhail was comatose, his breathing still very shallow. Jenevra’s eyes were flickering open, and Graea sat next to her on the seat, chafing her hands which were icy, and talking to her in a very quiet voice. The princess seemed to be trying to respond, but couldn’t break through, so Graea leaned close in to her, taking hold of the small stone that hung around Jenevra’s neck. “Jenna! Jenna!” She called softly. “You need to call Ki-Nimh. Tell Ki-Nimh that he needs to meet us at Mirizir. Nimh’a, can you hear me? Kian needs to come to Mirizir. Find him and tell him.”

Jenevra’s eyes flickered open as the touch of Lady Menzetti’s hand on the talisman amplified the contact. Pupils shrunk to pin points, she looked dazed and feverish. “Ki-Nimh?” she whispered. “Mirizir?”

Lady Menzetti held Jenevra’s hands within her own, the stone encased tightly within their shared grasp. “Yes, Jenna, that’s right. Bring Ki-Nimh to Mirizir. Good girl.” Her eyes filled with tears as the princess tried to make the gesture of assent with her head. Stroking Jenevra’s hair back from her face as the girl slipped deep into unconsciousness, Graea just prayed that the task hadn’t taken too much of Jenevra’s dwindling strength.

With just short stops to rest the horses, the Flight rode up to the Menzetti estate three days later in the early evening. It had been a nervous ride, none of the men understanding what had happened to Mikhail or Jenevra, who remained unconscious. They had ridden with weapons ready, not knowing whether some attack was imminent. Lady Menzetti gave swift instructions to her servants to have both young people taken to rooms immediately. Asking Bernardo to talk to her steward about arrangements for the Flight, she beckoned to Brogan to follow her. As they entered the room where Mikhail was being placed gently into a large soft bed, she turned to the sergeant. “If we’re lucky, Sergeant Brogan, we may have brought them here quickly enough that they will recover fully.”

Brogan scratched at his beard, a frown creasing his face. “Recover from what, my Lady? I didn’t see anything attack them; and none of the rest of us is sick, so it doesn’t look like any disease I’ve heard of before.”

She laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “I don’t think it’s either of those. I think it’s something the Order needed.”

“What?” Brogan lowered his voice again quickly. “What does this have to do with the Order? And how do you know about the Order, if you don’t mind my asking, Lady Menzetti?”

Checking that everything was settled in this room, Lady Menzetti went along to Jenevra’s. The princess looked lost in the huge bed, a small pale figure lying too still for Brogan’s liking; none of the vitality that usually marked the princess’s presence was visible in the fragile looking child. Bending over her, Lady Menzetti sat on the edge of the bed, holding onto one of Jenevra’s hands. She motioned to Brogan to sit on a chair near them, which he did rather awkwardly, not used to being in this situation. “I know the Order, Sergeant,” she said. “My son was trained by them. I have sent for him because I think he should be able to help us with this.”

“Do you know what it is, exactly?”

Graea nodded her head, eyes still focused on Jenevra’s face, watching for any signs of consciousness. “More or less; I think it’s a task usually only given to three people within the Order. Maybe Kian can explain properly when he arrives.” Her shoulders slumped tiredly. “You will stay here for as long as their recovery takes, Sergeant. Organize your men however you see fit. I’m sure your Captain here will appreciate it if you just keep up the same training pattern she’d started you on. I take it you’ve all been running each morning?”

Brogan stared at her. “How on earth did you know that, my Lady?”

Graea smiled. “She’s in the Order, Sergeant. That’s what they do.”

Sensing that Graea Menzetti was not exactly what he’d thought the Chancellor’s wife would be; Brogan also saw the fatigue etched clearly on her face. She was not a young woman, and everyone at Court knew that she generally stayed in Mirizir because her health was not strong. “I think maybe you need to rest fully too, my Lady,” he said, calling for her servants to attend to her. “If you think it would be alright, Lady Menzetti, I’ll stay and watch the princess for a while.”

“No need, Sergeant. She’ll be well attended by my staff. The whole Flight needs to rest for now. Maybe tomorrow my son will reach here. Then we’ll know more.” She pushed him lightly. “Go on, Sergeant. You’ll be no use to Jenevra if you’re worn out from watching over her. You need to keep the Flight ready. If … when she comes out of this, she’ll want to carry on as usual.” Lady Menzetti indicated the three maids hovering in the room. “If anything changes, I promise you someone will come and find you. The best thing you can all do is to continue with your regular routine until she is back with you. Now go and tell your men that the princess is sleeping, and looks fine. There’s no need for them all to worry about her. ”

“Isn’t there? She doesn’t look fine, my Lady. She looks deathly.”

Lady Menzetti stared at him calmly, hands clasped loosely in front of her.

Unable to meet that clear, unwavering gaze for long, Brogan sketched a rusty bow and left.

The following day the Flight was returning from its training run when a lone figure thundered past them on a heavily lathered horse; a familiar looking gray cloak billowing around the rider. Swinging down from the saddle before the horse had stopped, a tall, lean man bounded up the steps to the large house without a glance at the men jogging up the path behind him. He took the stairs two and three at a time, flinging open the doors of the rooms on the top floor.

“We’re in here, Kian,” Lady Menzetti stood outside Jenevra’s door, watching her son’s impatient progress. “I thought you had learned more control than that.”

Kian Menzetti gave his mother a tight smile and a brief hug. “How are they?” he asked, striding into the room and over to the bed. Holding Jenevra’s wrist he felt for the pulse. “Weak,” he noted sparingly, dropping his cloak onto the end of the bed. “What happened, Mother?”

“You know what happened, Kian. The talisman was activated.” She sat on the chair by the bed. “Do you know why? And stop pacing around like that, it’s highly distracting.”

Fondly exasperated, Kian rubbed his hands over his face. “I know. I have to tell the Nimh’a not to do it all the time. I rode directly here as soon as I heard her call me.”

“Then you did hear her? That’s good.” Lady Menzetti nodded. “I think that last call must have been the one that put her over the edge. She was almost conscious before I asked her to contact you.”

“Really? What about Misha? How’s he doing?”

“He’s awake mostly now. I still haven’t let him out of his room, but at least he’s moving about. It’s Jenevra I’m worried about though.” She looked sternly at her son. “She’s simply not strong enough for this to happen again anytime soon. I can’t imagine what Dai-Nimh was thinking when he selected her for this.”

“You know Dai-Nimh has his reasons for choosing her. She is one of the strongest of us; certainly mentally, and in many cases physically too.”

“It’s still not right, and I’m not sure I agree with that assessment anyway,” she insisted stubbornly. “We women put a lot more of ourselves into our contact with other people than you men do. She may have been trained by the Order, but she’s still a woman. She does things differently. I know. Why was the call sent out, Kian?”

“I’m not entirely sure, Mother. I know Dai-Nimh has recalled the whole Order to the Island, except for the two Talisman bearers; he probably heard Jenna’s call to me so he’ll know why I’m not there. Putting out a call like that is what took all of their strength so quickly, I would think. I don’t know why he called them back, though. It must be something important; he wouldn’t just do that without reason. We’d better get back there too as soon as they’re properly fit. If it’s that urgent, he’ll need them.”

Running his hands through his dark gray hair now, Kian sat on the end of the bed, pulling at Jenevra’s toes through the covers. “She hates that,” he said absently. “It’s a certain way to wake her.” His forehead creased slightly in concern as there was not flicker of movement from the princess. “How long has it been?”

“Four days, Kian. She should be conscious by now.”

“I know,” he conceded. “I’d better go see Misha.”

“Sit,” his mother ordered. “Misha can come in here.”

Mikhail was still looking ill: dark circles shadowing his eyes and his skin dull with a waxy pallor. His thick auburn curls hung lank and lifeless. The customary gray clothing of the Order didn’t help him look any healthier. Sinking tiredly onto the other side of the bed, he gazed at Jenevra in dismay. “She’s not back yet? Why not? Is she going to be alright Ki-Nimh?”

“Calm, Misha.” Kian placed a comforting hand on Mikhail’s shoulder. “We don’t know why she’s taking so long to come out of it.” He looked pensive. “Maybe you could call her?”

“Kian! We’ve only just got him conscious. You can’t possibly risk him again.” Lady Menzetti was outraged. “I won’t allow it. Misha, you’re not to do it, do you hear me? She just needs some more rest.”

“You don’t know that, Mother,” Kian disagreed. “Don’t go the whole way in Misha; just see if you can reach her at all.”

“No!” Lady Menzetti grasped hold of Kian’s arm. “Just let her rest!”

“We have to know,” he said sharply. “Misha’s the only one who can do that.” Nodding at the Prince, Kian took one of Jenevra’s hands into his own, clasping it tightly.

Misha lifted her other hand in his, leaning forward so that he could fold his talisman in their joined hands. Closing his eyes, he called out to her in his mind. The white mists he had wandered in while unconscious came swirling back around the edges of his perception. Pushing through them he called out again and again for her to answer him. No answer came but, as the mist swirled thicker, crowding in on him, he pulled back; opening his eyes, brow beaded with sweat and breathing fast, to see Jenevra’s blue eyes looking into his. Incapable of speech, he took a deep breath and raised her hand to his lips.

Recovering felt like a long slow process to the princess. The first day Jenevra had been fully conscious was almost five days after the initial collapse. Weak as she was she was still as determined as ever, asking for Brogan, and proceeding to give him instructions as to the Flight’s training schedule; much to his secret relief and amusement. Until Lady Menzetti found out what she was doing and chased Brogan out.

“Kian can work with them, Jenna,” she told the princess. “If he trained you, he can certainly work with your Flight, don’t you think? You just need to concentrate on getting your own strength back, so that you can work with them too.”

Ruefully, Jenevra had acknowledged that Lady Menzetti was right, informing Brogan that Ki-Nimh, her mentor from the Island, would be helping them with their training. “Tore help you,” she murmured. “You’ll all wish you had me back before he’s finished with you! You’d better tell D’Agostino to watch his mouth. Ki-Nimh won’t put up with his comments.”

“Really?” Brogan’s grin was huge. “I’ll try to remember to tell him, Captain.”

It was another four days before Lady Menzetti would allow Jenevra out of the main house. She had let Mikhail join in some light work with the Flight earlier in the week, knowing that he needed to start rebuilding his strength; but she was still concerned about Jenevra’s lingering weakness, not wanting to overtax the princess before she was ready. When Jenevra finally came out to see the Flight it was only to observe. She looked shockingly pale to the Flight; none of her normal vivaciousness had returned yet.

In the short time that Master Ki (as the Flight were calling him) had been training the Flight, Jenevra could already see differences. The casual nature of the Flight was no longer evident. Tall, lean, and looking as though he’d been carved out of living granite, Master Ki was a tough disciplinarian. D’Agostino was tight and focused; it hadn’t taken Ki-Nimh long to cure him of commenting out loud … just a couple of days worth of sharp blows to the backs of his calves whenever he said anything. All of them were looking tidier. A sudden fashion had broken out among them for scraping their hair back into the tight braid worn by most of the Order. Even Spider Baudoin’s curls had been pulled back, like Misha’s.

Jenevra grinned. Those things hadn’t been important to her, but if Ki-Nimh could impart them to the Flight, so be it. Several days later, she began training again herself. Concerned at how hard the talisman had hit her, Jenevra couldn’t remember a time when she had felt this bad before, ever. Knowing that the talisman could be operated again at any time, she knew she couldn’t afford to be this weak again.

Slowly, Kian had begun working Jenevra and Mikhail together again, just as they had done on the Island. After the regular sessions with the Flight, they would work slowly and carefully on sword drills, side by side, move by move. It was like their first year in the Order; basics, building their skills again, piece by piece.

It became something of a routine for the Flight to gather at the top of the gardens, lounging on the lawn in the pale afternoon sun to watch the training sessions. At the bottom of the grassy slope, next to the ornamental lake, the tall lean figure of Ki-Nimh would stand, arms folded, calling move after move to his two students. Falling back easily into the habit of obedience, Jenevra and Mikhail moved as one; improving daily in speed and strength. Having previously been so highly trained and physically fit, once they began working seriously their skills revived quickly. Before long they were back running at the front of the Flight, instead of lagging behind.

Those members of the Flight who hadn’t been in the Throne Room the night of Jenevra’s investiture as Protector had been astounded watching Jenevra and Mikhail train with wooden practice swords. The initial side by side drills had given way to full contact fighting, each of them flowing seemingly effortlessly into a sequence of moves that blocked the other. They knew each other’s style so well, they rarely landed a blow, blocking and parrying each move. They had even fought blindfolded with almost mystical perception; halting when Ki-Nimh shouted the order, with their swords each an inch or two away from the other’s throat.

The Flight watched them with a growing saddened understanding. Jenevra and Mikhail were like two halves of the same person; so closely linked that sometimes it was hard to understand how they could ever be apart. The focus and closeness they had was something no-one else would ever have with either of them; an intensity of purpose and shared understanding that created a wall around them. When they fought there was a connection between them; their eyes never leaving each other. They began to really see that ‘their’ Princess, their Captain, would never be with anyone the way she was with Misha; although there didn’t appear to be anything remotely romantic in the connection between them. It also became clear to most of the men how hard it was for each of them to know that they couldn’t remain together; this bond was reaching the time when it would be severed forever. Misha’s marriage to Princess Artela had already been announced, and it was really only a matter of time until Jenevra was promised to someone for the Empire’s benefit.

Several weeks of good food, plenty of rest and carefully planned exercise soon brought both Jenevra and Misha back to glowing good health, although Jenevra had seen a return of the nightmares. Her sleeping was so erratic anyway this made very little difference to her recovery. She developed a habit of walking down to the sea most evenings. Mirizir sat on the coast, huge sand dunes breaking the strong sea breezes before they reached the estate.

Lady Menzetti loved to walk along the shore too, so they tended to go together, strolling and talking; sometimes just sitting in silence watching the sea. Over the course of the weeks at Mirizir, Jenevra had spent more time talking to Lady Menzetti (who was insisting that Jenevra call her Graea) than she had ever spent talking to any other woman. It had been something of a revelation.

“They knew I wasn’t the one when my health began to fail,” Graea had told the princess. “I had been with them for three years then, but my breathing just wasn’t right any more. The Master at the time allowed me to leave my training. They sent me home, and I went back to Court where I married Francesco.”

“The Chancellor’s name is Francesco?” Jenevra’s eyes twinkled. “I always just think of him as ‘Chancellor’.”

Graea laughed lightly, giving Jenevra a tiny glimpse of the vibrant young woman Graea had been in her youth, before her health declined. “He can be a bit pompous, can’t he?” she smiled. “But he’s still Francesco at home. No-one is born old, Jenna! He was quite the dashing young Count you know. He still makes my heart skip a beat, even now.” Graea’s smile faded. “He was very angry about what had happened to my health on the Island.”

“He knew where you’d gone?” Jenevra was incredulous.

“You can’t go into a marriage with that sort of secret lying between you, Jenna. We’d been in love with each other since before I left for the Island. He waited all those years, not knowing if I was ever coming back, never hearing from me; not even knowing where I had gone or why. You know how that is.” She had looked out at the sun setting on the sea. “He really hates the fact that I’m too weak to stay at Court with him all the time. The mountain air takes my breath away in winter. I’m much happier here by the sea. When Kian was born, I became even weaker.” She turned her head toward Jenevra. “You know, having you and the Flight here, with Kian, has really done me good. I haven’t felt this alive in years.”

“But won’t the Chancellor be angry if he finds out you’ve had us here … you know, three of us from the Island?”

“Yes,” Graea responded matter-of-factly. “He’ll be livid. He and Kian haven’t spoken for years. Not since Kian stayed on the Island after his training. And I think we all know how he feels about you!”

Jenevra chortled. “It’s not like he makes much of a secret of it.” She sat down on the sand, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them. “You said, you weren’t ‘the one’,” Jenevra remembered the start of their conversation. “The one what?”

“The Eligia Shala,” Graea replied. “Dai-Nimh told you the prophecy, didn’t he?”

Jenevra shook her head. “Never mentioned it that I recall. It can’t have been important if he didn’t mention it … although the words sound kind of familiar.” She let it go.

Graea looked as if she was about to speak, but sighed instead.

They sat in a companionable silence for a while, watching the sun sink below the horizon; watching as the twin moons of the summer sky rose pale and luminous, mirror images of each other in the darkness. “They’re like Misha and me,” Jenevra murmured.

Graea gazed intently at her. “What do you mean by that?”

Jenevra shrugged. “Each of us reflects the other. Our strengths and weaknesses complement each other. When we work together like we’ve been doing again here, it feels so right. We know each other so well. I can’t imagine ever being so connected with anyone like I am with Misha.”

“He’s betrothed. You do remember?”

“Yes, I remember. I’m not talking about marrying him. I just can’t imagine being this close with anyone else.”

Graea rubbed gently on the young girl’s back, hunched up to the side of her, and then patted Jenevra’s shoulder. “Come on then, help me up. If we don’t start heading back, they’ll send out a search party!”

“Don’t give up on the idea of love just because you can’t be with Misha, Jenna,” she continued as they walked slowly back through the chilly sand, both barefoot. “I had a training partner on the Island too, and we were as close as you and Misha. It’s the nature of the training, to rely on each other … to have that level of trust. I still remained in love with Francesco.”

“Yes,” Jenevra sighed. “But you were already in love with him before you went. How will I ever find someone who understands me like Misha does?”

“Why on earth would you want that?”

“What?”

“Why do you want a man who understands you? You need to keep them guessing. Half the fun is learning to understand each other over time. You won’t get true passion from a man who thinks he understands you. The real secret after your time in the Order is to find a man you respect too much to kill—or one who makes you laugh.” She gave the young girl a knowing look.

Jenevra laughed. The respectable Chancellor’s wife walking demurely next to her, barefoot on a beach, talking about killing people was just too funny.

“I’m serious,” Graea said; and something in her tone made Jenevra pause. “The night the Emperor made you Protector, Misha challenged you. If Kian hadn’t called the halt would you have finished that stroke you were making?”

Jenevra considered the question carefully. Most people assumed she had stopped because of Misha’s mother’s scream, and she had made no move to disillusion them. In fact, Ki-Nimh had been directly in front of them and had called the same command he would have done in training for an immediate cessation. Would she have finished that killing stroke? Surely not. Surely she loved Misha too much for that to be possible?

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

“Yes, Kian? Did you want me?” Lady Menzetti asked as her son entered the breakfast room several days later. Kian paused only to bark orders at Jenevra and Mikhail who were disappearing rapidly down the hallway.

“You think that’s a real problem, Mother?” Kian asked, continuing a conversation he’d been having with his mother the evening before, regarding the young pair of royals.

“Not really. I think they would like to be in love with each other—maybe they even are a little bit: but Jenna at least is still putting the Order and the Empire ahead of her own feelings. I’d worry more about Misha.” Lady Menzetti stepped out of the room onto the pathway outside the huge windows. “Walk with me, Kian. We have things to discuss before you leave.”

“I’m leaving?”

“Jenna just received instructions to escort Misha home for his wedding immediately. Neither of them was thrilled about it, which is why they were disappearing as you arrived.”

“And I’m going with them?”

“I really think it would be a good idea for you not to leave them alone together, Kian. Apart from anything else you are the only three not on the Island. You should be with them.”

Gazing out over the gardens, arms folded inside his loose gray sleeves, Kian nodded. “Maybe Jenna and I can go to the Island after the wedding,” he mused. “We can find out what’s going on then. You will be staying here, Mother, won’t you? I don’t think you should be chasing around too much …”

“At my age?” Graea finished for him. “No. I’ll be here. Just keep me informed, Kian. Try to keep them safe.”

“I’ll do what I can. You know I can’t make any promises; the Order requires obedience, and Jenna has the added complication of the Empire and this Protectorship on top of that.” He kissed his mother’s hand gently; wiping a tear away from her cheek. “I know you’ve grown fond of the princess; I’ll look out for her as much as I can.”

“She’s just too young for all this, Kian,” Lady Menzetti turned away from him. “You truly don’t understand what you’re all asking her to give up. And she’s just starting to realize it.”

Jenevra was discussing plans for leaving Mirizir with Brogan. The Flight would be glad to get back on the road, she knew. Mirizir had been necessary and useful, but they needed more purpose than that. “Although I don’t call having to attend a wedding a real reason,” she huffed, thoroughly irritated with the mission. “Still, once we’ve done that, I guess we can go on down to Lorthia. Caddoc’s sons should be good for some hunting … and there are all those huge mountains down there too,” she added, brightening slightly at the idea.

Brogan groaned. “Well, that’s you and Baudoin ecstatic then, Captain!”

“Maybe we could even ask Admiral Massili for a ship,” she pondered out loud, an excited gleam appearing in her eyes. “We could sail round to Jantara.”

“Maybe we should just get to Kansk first, Captain.” Brogan noted dryly. “Let’s get our first task completed; deliver everyone where they should be. It’s just a thought.”

Sticking her tongue out at him, Jenevra grinned. “Does it ever get boring, Brogan? Being right all the time—”

But Brogan wasn’t looking at her anymore. His eyes were focused behind her, watching something with a puzzled frown.

Turning to see what was happening, she saw Misha charging towards them on a solid-looking black horse. Understanding immediately, she began running towards him, reaching up with one arm. With barely a hitch in the horse’s stride she swung up behind him and they headed out of the estate together.

“Dammit,” Brogan grumbled. “Bernardo! Bran!” As the two men came towards him, the Sergeant told them to follow Jenevra and Mikhail. “If the Captain argues, just bring the Prince back—tied up if you have to. The Emperor’s orders were to get him safely home, so we can legitimately do that. She’ll follow.”

As they loped off towards the low building the Flight had been staying in, Brogan ruffled his rapidly graying hair with both hands, sighed and walked in the same direction.

Holding lightly onto Misha as they cantered through woodland a mile or so from the Menzetti estates, Jenevra smiled. “Where are we going?” she called. “Not that I care!”

Misha glanced back over his shoulder. “I thought we’d head on up the coast a little. If we go this way we can use the river to disguise the tracks before we cut across.”

“Good idea! They’re bound to send Bernardo after us.”

“That’s what I thought. Jenna, are you alright with this? I didn’t ask you, but I just couldn’t stay there … not today.”

“I’m here aren’t I? I chose to come, Misha.” She slid her hands further round him, resting her cheek against the back of his shoulders.

An hour later they rode out onto a large expanse of rough green sea grass, bordering more dunes and a vast sandy shore. Not another soul was in sight; no sounds except the sea and wind, with the occasional cry of a lonely cormorant. Sliding down from the horse Jenevra surveyed the view with a deep satisfaction. “This is wonderful,” she said. “It’s so peaceful.” Pulling her boots off, she wriggled her toes into the sand, beaming delightedly.

Misha looked on bemused. “I have never understood that about you. What is this thing about having bare feet?”

Bounding up one of the large dunes, Jenevra stood at the top, wind whisking strands of her hair out of its braid. “It just feels good. Like the wind … or the sea!” She hurtled down the far side of the dune where Misha couldn’t see her.

Cantering easily onto the beach he soon caught up with her. Leaning down and catching her up in one arm, he swung her up in front of him; elated as she leaned back against him comfortably. Riding through the low surf, they headed further up the coast until they came to a large rocky headland. Walking the horse, they turned up into the dunes again. Although the sun was high, the north wind was strong, whipping sand up around them. One of the dunes had a deep hollow just below its crown slightly sheltered from the wind, surrounded by marram grass, and they sat quietly watching the sea together.

Watching her as she turned her face up to the sun with her eyes closed, Misha reached out and just tucked a piece of hair back behind Jenevra’s ear. She smiled at the touch, pushing her feet deep into the cold sand again.

“I’ll miss you,” Misha murmured into her ear, strong arms going around her and pulling her closer to him.

Jenevra opened heartbreakingly blue eyes, gazing directly up at him. She touched his face gently. “We’ll spend our whole lives doing what other people want us to. This is our day, Misha: the only day we’ll ever have where we can just be ourselves. There’s no Order, no Palaces, no Emperors, no Kings. It’s just us—for the first time—the only time.”

Sensing the despair deeply hidden like his own; Misha said nothing. After a long moment of searching each other’s faces as if truly seeing them for the first time, Misha sighed deeply, closing his eyes in reluctant resignation as he realized that the deep friendship he saw in her eyes wouldn’t be strong enough to make her willing to break the Oath they’d sworn on the Island. Holding her tightly, as if by doing so she could never leave him, they sat watching the waves crashing pointlessly on the shore; his thick curls tangling in her hair as the wind blew around them.

Thinking back over the time he had known her, Misha remembered something. “Jenn,” he said. “When we were ill; when you were still unconscious …”

“When you came to find me?” she noted with a gentle smile.

“Yes. Well, I saw mists.”

“Mmm, me too. It’s always like that when the talisman speaks to me.”

“Speaks?” Misha’s eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown.

Jenevra’s smile deepened. “That’s what I call it. I don’t know how else to describe it. But it’s usually the same; mists, and shadows of people talking to me.”

“People? That’s what I wanted to ask you. I thought I saw a shadow of a person. I’ve never seen that with my talisman—or heard voices. I just get the mists and kind of an impression in my mind, as if I know something I hadn’t known before.”

“Funny,” Jenevra commented. “I thought we’d have the same experience with the talismans. Never occurred to me that it would be different for each of us; although,” she looked pensive. “I suppose it makes sense. We think differently, so thoughts come in different ways.” As if aware of its being discussed, the talisman deepened its customary pulse inside her; warning her of danger if she didn’t pull her mind away and stop talking about it.

“It’s bothering you now, isn’t it?” Misha said gently. “You get kind of a tight look around your eyes,” he explained as she looked at him. “Still telling you I’m a danger to you?” His smile took the sting out of the question.

Nodding, Jenevra sighed. “I wish Dai-Nimh had had more time to explain it,” she said. “Maybe the danger is in me. Maybe it just tries to warn me of things I might do.” Oaths I might break, she thought glancing sideways at Misha’s familiar profile. Shaking her head, she pushed both hands deep into the sand, pulling them up and letting the silky grains slip through her fingers, like the time they had left.

Riding back to the estate along the coastline, Jenevra sat silently behind Misha again, leaning closely into him. Neither of them spoke; there was nothing to say. Their day was gone, sinking with the sun. As they neared the estate, Jenevra spotted the slight figure of Lady Menzetti walking along the beach with the tall form of Ki-Nimh. Squeezing Misha round the waist to stop, she rubbed her face against his back, trying to take some part of him with her. “I’ll go talk to them.”

“Jenna—” Misha stopped as her fingers touched his lips. With one last lingering hug he let her go; watched her walking slowly along the sands to their Mentor. Reaching the stables, Misha found himself face to face with fully half the Flight and a totally irate Brogan.

“Do you have any idea of the danger you put her in? I swear if you weren’t a Prince I’d kill you!” Brogan’s fury was impressive, his bulky form swelling with his anger.

Misha stared back at him with defeated eyes. Pulling a heavy bladed knife from his belt he handed it to the ranting sergeant. “Go ahead.” He said dully. “Do it. Save me from a lifetime without Jenna.” He glared at them all. “Just think what a wonderful revenge you can have; you’re taking me to be married to someone I don’t care about and you’ll take the better part of me away with you!” He stomped off into the shadows.

“Damn if that didn’t just take all the fun out of it!” D’Agostino muttered.

On the beach Jenevra approached Graea and Ki-Nimh. “Sorry,” she said as she reached them.

Graea’s eyes were filled with sympathy. “Are you alright?” she asked simply.

Jenevra nodded. “We just rode and talked.”

“We’ll talk later, Jenna.” Graea made her way slowly back to the house.

The princess stood silently on the sand next to the man who had guided her for the last five years, waiting for his recriminations.

Ki-Nimh gazed steadily out across the ocean in front of them. In the customary gray of the Order he looked as stern and unyielding as steel. “What possessed you?”

Jenevra scrubbed at the sand with her foot. “I don’t know, Ki-Nimh.”

“That’s no answer, Jenna, and you know it. There is always a reason. What was yours for abandoning your Flight and the orders of your Emperor?”

“Selfishness, stupidity … because it felt good. They’re all wrong Ki-Nimh, I know. It was just—” She stopped; not knowing how to explain such a gross dereliction of duty. No excuse would satisfy.

“Do you understand your relationship with Misha now?”

Jenevra glanced at her mentor. The question was totally unlike him. “Yes, Ki-Nimh,” she agreed, hesitantly. “This was our one day to be who we really are with each other: our only day. It can never happen again.” She sighed deeply. “We just had to have today to understand that. I’m sorry we had to disappoint you to do it.”

Ki-Nimh surprised her by placing his hand on her shoulder. “I need to speak to Misha. Go see my mother, Jenna. Apparently she understands you better than I do!”

Jenevra bowed deeply as she would have done on the Island and went to find Lady Menzetti and the Flight.

Brogan seemed peculiarly calm when she found him in the stables with Bernardo and Bran. “They’ve just returned from looking for you and the idiot Prince, Captain,” he gestured at the weary pair. “But it appears they didn’t find you … lost the trail.” A strangely cynical tone colored his words. “I have, however, spoken to Prince Mikhail on the subject of abducting Princesses.”

“I’m sorry, Brogan.” Jenevra said softly. “And you two. I didn’t mean for you to waste time looking for us. I just came to apologize.”

“Captains don’t apologize, Captain.” Brogan growled.

“This one does, Sergeant.” Jenevra turned to leave the stables. Catching Bernardo’s eye, she beckoned to him. As he bent near to her she kissed him on the cheek.

Bright red, he mumbled, “What was that for?”

Jenevra grinned. “When did you ever lose a trail? Thank you,” she whispered.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The journey to Kansk, capital city of the unified states of Abalos-Colles was peacefully uneventful, much to Brogan’s relief. Jenevra rode at the head of the Flight, flanked by Ki-Nimh and Brogan, while Mikhail rode farther back. To all appearances they were resigned to their proper roles again, although Brogan was choosing to ignore the long glances they gave each other when they thought they weren’t looking. The princess was quieter on this journey: riding for miles at a stretch without saying anything, a distant look on her face.

The Flight was even sensitive to the change, D’Agostino keeping his comments to himself with an unusual degree of tact. Even when Brogan had asked him to try cheering the princess up, he had refrained from treading on the subject of Mikhail. Riding steadily, they made good time across the Plains heading south to Abalos-Colles. Skirting the southern edge of the Forest of Speir, they crossed the great Abalos River at its only possible fording point near the border with Abalos-Undae. The river formed a natural boundary between the three regions of the Kingdom of Abalos-Colles, finally running far to the east into Lorthia.

Seven days after leaving Mirizir, they rode into an inn just east of Kansk, the Abaleine capital city. Taking a few hours to wash and smarten up, the entire Flight resumed the final leg of the journey in their formal uniforms; gleaming mail and horses brushed clean of dust, ready to present the formal face of the Empire to King Aleksander and his court. Adapting her formal attire slightly, Jenevra added a pair of tight white trousers to the ensemble. Mounted on the black horse she had ridden when the talisman had been activated, she was a vision of gleaming silver mail, white and gold armor, with a white cloak flowing behind her. The horse pranced along merrily, apparently sensing the occasion and performing for all it was worth.

“He’s a show-off, my Lady,” Laio noted with a grin from on top of his wagon. “He’s unusual in his coloring: maybe he just knows he’s special.”

Jenevra smiled, reaching forward to ruffle the pale pewter colored mane lying silkily along the horse’s ebony neck. “He’s certainly a character, Laio.”

“Did you ever decide to name him, Captain?”

Her smile turned wicked. “He’s vain; I was thinking of calling him Blaise.”

“Blaze? That sort of suits him, my Lady, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea, Laio!” Jenevra laughed for the first time since leaving Lady Menzetti’s estate, then pushed the newly named horse into the front of the Flight as they rode into Kansk and headed for the palace of King Aleksander, Misha’s father.

“Welcome to Abalos-Colles your Imperial Highness,” King Aleksander greeted Jenevra personally. Although he hadn’t wanted Mikhail to marry the young Princess, the King was a shrewd politician, and would make sure the Empire’s representative was treated with all courtesy due to her rank. “There are quarters for your Flight in the main barracks. May I offer the hospitality of the Palace to your senior officers?”

Feeling Brogan’s eyes boring into the back of her neck, Jenevra bowed her head graciously and accepted a room for Kian, to Brogan’s audible relief. Dismissing the Flight to their quarters she warned Brogan to keep the men on a tight rein. “Misha’s marrying Corros’s daughter, Cieren’s sister,” she reminded him. “I know Dillon’s going to want answers, but make sure he knows that now is not the time or place. It’s likely that they know what we saw and did back in Albor by now. They may try to provoke something using that. Eyes and ears need to be open, and mouths firmly shut, no matter what they hear. It gets reported back to you or me—no-one else. Any trouble with the Diruthians and I’ll deal with it just like I did with Theiss.”

Brogan nodded grimly. “I’m glad you chose to keep Master Ki with you Captain. I wouldn’t trust any of them down here.”

The Court was a little less formal than the Imperial court at Salanova, and Jenevra found herself invited into the royal family’s own rooms later that evening after dinner. The whole family was there, engaged in various pastimes. King Aleksander and his wife Queen Daneshka were playing a card game with King Corros and King Caddoc Wargentin of Lorthia. Queen Odilia, Caddoc’s young wife, sat nearby watching, with the Crown Prince of Lorthia, Baran Wargentin, standing close by. Prince Cieren was standing behind his sister, Artela, talking to Mikhail. Fortunately, Jenevra had missed the reunion of the betrothed couple, but still felt a pang as she noted Misha’s hand firmly clasped by Artela’s.

Caddoc’s younger son, Conall, had been watching Misha’s sister, Allegra, taking a harsh lesson in chess from the Abaleine Prime Minister, a meticulously groomed and surprisingly young man named Menegri. Seeing Jenevra enter the room, Conall had moved swiftly to greet her. Always in the shadow of his ebullient older brother, he had found a friendly rapport with this dark shadow of the golden Couressimes. “Hello, Princess,” he smiled warmly at her. “Good journey?”

“Not bad,” Jenevra kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I rather thought we might pop down to Lorthia sometime soon. Maybe bring the Flight down there for some hunting?” She turned her head as Prime Minister Menegri’s voice caught her attention. “What’s going on there?” she asked Conall.

“The Minister’s been trying to teach Princess Allegra to play chess. It’s not going terribly well.” Conall’s voice held a wry tone that surprised Jenevra.

“Checkmate Your Highness.” Menegri shook his head sadly. “I do keep telling your Highness that there is little point in our continuing these lessons. Women simply don’t have the mental capacity for such a strategic game.”

Master Ki had entered the room just as Menegri made his pompous pronouncement, and his eyebrows shot up in baffled amusement. Strolling across to Jenevra, he stood at her side and asked if she would care to introduce him to the Prime Minister.

“Prime Minister Menegri, have you met Kian Menzetti, son of our own beloved Chancellor?”

Menegri stood up and shook hands with Kian. “Delighted, sir. I’ve been an admirer of your father’s for many years. I trust he’s well?”

Kian smiled gently. “Indeed, he is; thank you. Perhaps we should leave these young people to their own amusements?” Kian and the Prime Minister moved towards the Kings near the fireplace.

Jenevra, Allegra and Conall moved out onto a large balcony overlooking the huge Lake. Lanterns provided plenty of light for talking, casting a golden glow over them all. The Lake lay still in the late evening, a black mirror of the starlit sky above them.

“Will there be any other members of the Imperial Family attending the wedding?” Princess Allegra asked, nonchalantly twisting an auburn curl around a finger.

“You mean is Stephan coming?” Jenevra laughed. “Not as far as I know, Allegra, but I’m sure he would if he could. Someone may yet turn up. They don’t let me know what’s going on all the time, you know. And we’ve been a little out of touch lately.”

“With Mikhail?” Allegra and Conall shared a look of understanding as they turned to Jenevra.

The princess chewed lightly on her lip. “Yes,” she said shortly. “With Mikhail.”

“Why aren’t you fighting for him, Princess?” Allegra leaned forward intently, grasping hold of Jenevra’s hands. “If you told my parents how you both feel, they could stop this.”

A look of pain flashed across Jenevra’s face as she shook her head. “I couldn’t do it to Artela, even if I thought your parents would listen.” She gazed back inside the room where Artela was beaming devotedly at Misha, clinging tightly to him as if she would never be parted from his side. “It’d be like kicking a puppy. She’s so happy.”

“But you’re the one who’s really in love with him,” Conall said unexpectedly. “Why should you be miserable?”

“I’m not in love with Misha. I love him, yes, but Artela’s in love with him, Conall. It may be because he’s the first man who’s treated her with any degree of kindness in years; it may be because it’s her escape from that family of hers.” Jenevra gave a sad sigh. “It really doesn’t matter why. King Aleksander wants a daughter-in-law he has some control over, not a troublemaker like me.”

They all shared a smile at that.

“I still can’t believe you won’t fight for him,” Allegra persisted. “I would.”

“Really?” Jenevra looked amused. “So, when your father tells you he’s promised you to Cieren of Diruthia you’ll tell him you’ll only marry my brother Stephan? I’ll look forward to watching that confrontation, Allegra!”

Allegra’s green eyes opened wide. “He’s promised me to Cieren? Where did you hear that?”

“Nowhere, Allegra: don’t panic. As far as I know your father doesn’t have any plans for you yet. But Cieren’s spending a lot of time smarming around the adults.” Jenevra’s tone conveyed her growing distrust of the Prince of Diruthia. “But I promise to tell Stephan to make a move as soon as I see him next.”

“Maybe he’ll come to Lorthia with Admiral Massili next week,” Conall observed. “The Admiral always comes this time of year. He loves to go boar hunting with my father, and then they spend a week drinking and singing dreadful songs. I’m sure the Admiral makes half of them up as he goes along.”

“Rafael’s coming to Lorthia? I will come along then, if you can wring an invitation out of your father for me, Conall?” Jenevra mused. “Maybe between us we can curb the Admiral’s wilder moments?” There was an increase in noise inside the room and Allegra peered back in though the open doors. Looking flustered, she flapped her hands at them both. “They’re here! I thought you said he wasn’t coming. He’s here! Do I look alright?”

Grabbing hold of Allegra’s hand, Jenevra dragged her back into the room where Stephan and Richard Couressime were greeting King Alexander and Queen Daneshka, apologizing profusely for their late arrival; apparently due to one of their horses becoming lame on the journey. They greeted Kings Corros and Caddoc politely before turning to greet their sister.

Jenevra hugged them both warmly, pulling Allegra up next to her and pointing her at Stephan. “You remember Princess Allegra, Stephan? I told her you’d be saving the first dance for her at the wedding.”

Stephan gave a sheepish grin as he kissed Allegra’s hand. “Delighted, Princess Allegra. I have fond memories of our dances at my cousin’s wedding. I hope I can spend a little more time with you here; with your father’s permission, of course.”

“She would be delighted, wouldn’t you, Allegra?” King Aleksander didn’t need to encourage his daughter but, as ever, fathers are the last to know when their daughters fall in love. Pouring wine for the new arrivals, King Aleksander brought them over to join the other monarchs.

Jenevra moved back into the shadows where Conall was sitting, watching. “You’re looking serious,” she noted. “What is it? Were you hoping for Allegra?” A sudden look of concern crossed her face. “Oh no, Conall, you aren’t …?”

‘No, Princess,” he smiled grimly. “I was just a bit surprised by the look on King Corros’s face when you greeted your brothers. I didn’t know he hated you.”

Jenevra turned her face to him, eyebrows raised.

“There was no mistaking the look on his face when he saw you with your brothers,” Conall confirmed. “What have you ever done to him?”

“I’m not sure.” Jenevra frowned. “When Phillip announced me as Imperial Protector; Corros was expecting Phillip to announce my betrothal to Cieren. That’s why they were angry then. I didn’t think he’d hold a grudge for that. I guess I was wrong.” She sat back, gazing across the room at the Diruthian monarch greeting her brothers. With the advantage of Conall’s observation she could see that Corros’s good humor was slightly strained; his smile was chilly, never quite reaching his eyes. The elderly King Caddoc, however, was another case, slapping both Couressime brothers on the back fondly and beaming at them in obvious delight.

Nudging Conall with an elbow, Jenevra muttered to him to keep watching Corros’s expression. Crossing the room, she walked directly up to her brothers. With one arm around Stephan and her hand in Richard’s, she asked the assembled adults to excuse them while she caught up with her brothers, to find out how their sister was. Smiling disarmingly at them all, she dragged them over to the corner where Conall was waiting. Baran Wargentin followed, ostensibly to continue his conversation with Stephan.

“Well?” she asked.

“Furious,” Conall reported. “Seriously, Jenevra, you need to be careful of him.”

“What’s all this about?” Richard shook his head at his little sister. “Now who’ve you upset?”

“I don’t think it’s just the princess, your Imperial Highness,” Conall explained quickly. “King Corros seems to have a passionate hatred for all of you, if his expression was anything to go on. Why don’t you all catch up while I go listen?” He grinned. “Shall I bring Allegra back over with me?”

“You’d better,” Jenevra noted dryly, watching the auburn-haired Princess chewing through her fingernails.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

“Absolutely no sense of propriety…no decorum. Just like her mother.” Corros was fuming as Conall reached the group, standing quietly behind them.

“What are you talking about, Corros?” Queen Daneshka gave him an exasperated glance. “Jenevra Couressime is nothing like her mother, other than in her looks. Saphila was far more easy going, lively … altogether more fun!”

“But Jenevra’s really funny, Mother,” Allegra defended her new friend. “And she’s clever too.”

“Women have no place being clever.” Alexsander didn’t endear himself to his wife or daughter with that comment.

“The whole Couressime family is infected with the same lack of regard for everyone else,” Corros was still ranting. “This Empire is tainted by their arrogance!”

Even King Aleksander was perturbed by Corros’s lack of discretion. “For the gods’ sakes, Corros, are you quite mad? Half of the Imperial family is sitting in this room and you pick now to criticize them? Do you want to cause a war in the Empire?”

“Why not?” Cieren butted in. “What do the Marissuns and Couressimes have that we don’t? I have as much ability to be Emperor as that idiot, Phillip does!”

Aleksander turned on the Prince. “Prince Cieren,” he said, with barely contained anger. “You are a guest at my son’s wedding, and too young to speak with any real knowledge of what you suggest, so I will overlook your treasonous comments this time; but rest assured, the loyalties of the Dhorani family lie with the Emperor, and will always do so … willful Princesses notwithstanding. I will not permit such disrespect for the Imperial family within my Kingdom. Do I make myself clear?”

Cieren bowed his head, eyes glinting angrily. Muttering an apology with ill-grace he asked leave to retire for the night.

Queen Daneshka hadn’t finished though. Turning to Corros she reminded him that she had been friends with Arrilia Neilla and Arrilia Saphila for years, before any of them had been married. “What did either of them ever do to you, Corros?”

With a venomous glance at the two blonde-haired men apparently deep in conversation with their sister, Corros spat, “She married that huge buffoon, Couressime, didn’t she?” Pulling himself together with a visible effort, Corros managed to paste a passable smile onto his face. “Still, you’re right, Daneshka, my dear. That’s all in the past now.” Rising to his feet he decided to go find his son, apologizing once more for the Crown Prince. “He’s still a little prone to angry outbursts—ever since his dear mother left this world. I suppose he will get over it in time.”

“Well, well,” Queen Daneshka sat down again, tapping her finger against her cheek thoughtfully. “So Corros fancied himself in love with Saphila?”

“And apparently still holds a grudge that she chose Stephan Couressime over him,” Prime Minister Menegri noted. “Your Majesty could not lose by keeping on the right side of the princess, I assure you, and maybe even an alliance with the Imperial family could keep them reassured of your enduring friendship. I think it may not be too long before the King of Diruthia overreaches himself, and I don’t see the new Emperor hesitating to squash him like a bug.”

“Princess Allegra,” Conall spoke up. “Prince Stephan was wondering if you would care to join us?” He held his arm out to her as Aleksander’s face creased into a craftily benevolent smile.

“Yes, my dear child, go join the young people.” He waved them off to join Jenevra, Stephan and Richard. “So you think the elder brother may be a possibility, Menegri?”

Menegri leaned forward to whisper quietly into the King’s ear. “I think Princess Allegra is already making a strong impression on Prince Stephan, Majesty. And, if you will permit the candor, I think it a shame that you set yourself so strongly against the princess. She and Prince Mikhail were already at least partly smitten with each other if I’m not mistaken. But you will need this Imperial alliance to offset the marriage to Diruthia. Thank Tore it was the daughter of their house you went for. If you’d sent Princess Allegra to marry that oaf Cieren, things would be much more difficult to smooth over with Corros and the Emperor.”

Catching only part of the conversation between her husband and his most trusted advisor, Queen Daneshka looked over at her son, still sitting quietly with his bride to be. Finally able to put a name to the lost look she had noticed on his face, she closed her own eyes wearily, sadness coursing through her. As she opened her eyes, she happened to catch Kian Menzetti looking at her. “You know?” she said softly.

Kian nodded. “I think most of us know now. Although I don’t think their feelings are exactly what either of them thinks they are. Mikhail seems to be having slightly more trouble understanding his duty to your House than Jenevra does, which isn’t helping.” He motioned to her to walk a little with him, and they met at the wine table, nursing a goblet each.

“And the Emperor still sent her here? Is he hoping Aleksander will change his mind and let them marry?”

Kian shook his head. “No, he was just trying to get her as far away from Diruthia as possible. I don’t think he really thought about how hard it would be for them, he was too wrapped up in his own wedded bliss to notice.”

“How typically male,” Daneshka sighed. “I’m surprised Neilla let him send her, though. She would know what it means.”

Kian looked at her puzzled. “How so, Your Majesty? Surely she’s just another guest?”

“Not just any guest, my Lord. Jenevra is the sole female representative of the Imperial family, yes?”

Kian nodded, none the wiser.

“So, the highest ranked lady and gentleman will be expected to witness the married couple being put to bed together. The princess will have to accompany Artela to her bedchamber. You can guarantee Corros will insist on the full protocol being followed at his daughter’s wedding.”

Kian was startled. “Surely they don’t expect an unmarried girl to be a witness?”

“Normally, no; but she is the only female member of the Imperial family in attendance.” Daneshka took a long drink. “Do you think she knows?”

“I’d guarantee not, your Majesty. After all, she left her own sister’s wedding before they reached that point, and before that she would only have been thirteen; unlikely to have been included in any such thing.” Kian voice was filled with deep feeling for his young charge. “Is there nothing we can do to avoid this?” Straightening his shoulders as the Queen shook her head sadly, Kian drained his goblet of wine. “Your Majesty, could you possibly occupy Princess Artela so that I can talk to Jenna and Misha together? I cannot let them face this without any warning. If they have time to prepare themselves, I know they’ll deal with it appropriately. Can you let them know to meet me in my room?”

Queen Daneshka nodded. “Of course; that’s a wonderful idea. Thank you, Lord Menzetti.” She swept into the middle of the room, clapping her hands together. “I think it’s time the ladies retired for the night,” she announced. “The bride needs to be rested for tomorrow, and the rest of us could probably use the beauty sleep!” Ushering the girls out of the room, Queen Daneshka hurried them along the hallway. “Princess Jenevra,” she hesitated, taking the princess’s hands into her own. “I think Lord Menzetti wanted to speak to you before you retire. He’ll be in his room shortly. Why don’t you wait for him there?” The Queen pulled Jenevra to her in a brief tight hug and moved rapidly away with Allegra and Artela: Allegra looking back over her shoulder in amazement.

Jenevra shrugged her shoulders at the princess, and then let herself in to Ki-Nimh’s room. Moments later the door opened and she turned, expecting to see Ki’s tall, lean form. It was Misha. Her stomach tightened. “I’m waiting for Ki-Nimh,” she explained unnecessarily.

“He asked me to meet him here too.” Misha remained by the door, not trusting himself any closer. All evening he had held on to Artela’s hand and thought of Jenevra.

They stood in silent awkwardness for several long minutes that felt like an eternity. Misha poured wine, and Jenevra moved across to the windows, gazing out again at the rippled silk of the lake, reflecting the two moons like a pair of half closed eyes. Misha’s heart pounded as he saw her profile etched by the silvered light. “Do you want a drink?” he asked.

“Please.” She didn’t turn back to him, just continued watching the water.

Carrying a crystal goblet to her, he felt an electric jolt as their fingers brushed. Retreating swiftly, Misha leaned against a solid desk, swallowing his drink straight down. “I wonder what he wants?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I just hope he hurries up.” She rubbed fingers against the tightness reasserting itself in her head—the talisman’s sharp warning of caution flaring again. Hastily, she strode across to the fireplace; placing her glass on the mantelpiece so that she wouldn’t drop it. Resting her head on her hands, leaning against the edge of the mantle, she sighed. “I have to go,” she said. “Tell Ki-Nimh I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Misha caught her arm as she made for the door. “Jenna!”

“Misha, please let go.” She wouldn’t look at him, just pulled against his grip.

Kian entered the room, a grim expression on his face. “Both of you sit down. We have to talk. Correction,” he said, filling three more glasses. “I have to talk, you two have to listen.” He drained his glass then carried the other two over to Jenna and Misha. Gesturing to the chairs by the fire, “Sit down,” he ordered.

Misha sat, absently accepting the wine Kian thrust at him.

“Nimh’a!”

“I’ll stand.” She stood defiantly by the mantle, retrieving the crystal goblet Misha had poured for her; holding the chilly glass to her aching head.

Mentally cursing her obstinacy, Kian drew a deep breath and began to explain to both of them the consequences of Jenevra’s rank at the wedding, and what it would mean at the end of the evening.

Misha groaned, sinking his head into his hands.

The princess had sunk, aghast, onto the chair. “No. Ki-Nimh, I can’t. You can’t ask that of me.”

“I’m not asking, Nimh’a,” Ki’s eyes were sympathetic, but his tone gave no quarter.

Jenevra raised her head. “Then I’ll leave tonight. I’ll find a reason and take the Flight north tonight.”

Kian looked down at her. “You can’t run away from this one, Nimh’a,” he said. “You have to stay, and you have to finish this.”

“Why, Ki-Nimh?” The question was tinged with all levels of meaning.

“My dear child,” Kian responded, gently. “You cannot allow Corros to have any grievance with the Empire; you cannot give him a reason to attack Phillip yet. Your position within the Empire is as vital as that within the Order. I wish I could protect you from all of it, but I can’t.”

Touched by this unusual display of affection from her mentor, Jenevra drew a deep shaking breath and nodded. “I really have to do this?” she asked softly.

Kian nodded, seeing the grieving acceptance in the depths of her eyes; knowing that duty would still come first for her … at least for now.

Misha’s hands reached out to hers and they rose to stand together, gazing into each other’s faces. A whispered, “Be happy, Misha,” and Jenevra turned away; Misha’s hands falling impotently to his sides as she left him forever.

Making her way out of the palace, Jenevra headed blindly down to the lake’s edge. Wandering the banks, she found a small jetty, walked to the end of it and sat down, alone again. Knowing she would never be with Misha hurt, but not quite as much as the understanding that was growing in her that she would never have anybody. Phillip might talk of marriage with other Princes, but she knew, from the voices she had heard in the mists at Mirizir, there would be no marriage for her. No personal commitment could be allowed to come between her duty to Order and Emperor. The realization that she would never be allowed to love suddenly cut the princess as it never had before. Leaning her head against one of the posts, she sat still, silent and lonely until the dawn’s pale fingers began to pull the night back revealing a day as perfect as any bride had ever wished for.

Out of sight, Farid Jatar kept the Flight’s careful watch over their captain.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Barely resigned to Misha’s marriage, Princess Jenevra Couressime was decidedly unwilling to witness his wife, Artela’s, triumphant emergence from the Bridal chamber the morning following their wedding. Having already set plans in motion to leave Abalos-Colles early, she paced the courtyard of the Abaleine palace, anxiously hoping to leave before seeing Misha again.

An invitation to hunt in Lorthia had been endorsed enthusiastically by King Caddoc at his younger son, Conall’s instigation, but it was Baran Wargentin, Caddoc’s older son, who led the contingent of younger royals away from the Abaleine court mid-morning; escorted by half of the Lorthian guard and Jenevra’s own Shadow Flight. Baran’s heavily pregnant wife had remained in Lorthia, so his early departure from the wedding celebrations was understandable.

Jenevra’s presence in the group had also allowed Princess Allegra to join them, much to her delight, and she rode alongside Stephan and Jenevra looking totally thrilled at the unexpected freedom.

Ki-Nimh had sent word for the Order’s ship to meet them on the north coast of Lorthia by the end of the week, but had not received any confirmation; which was unusual but not unheard of. He was growing anxious about the incident that had incapacitated Jenna and Misha so badly and wanted to talk to their Master about it. No communication had come through the talismans to call them to the Island, and they still didn’t know why everyone else had been summoned. Ki-Nimh knew that Jenevra would benefit from a day or two back amid the peacefulness of the Island too.

The ride from Kansk to Lorthia was a particularly scenic one, long rolling hills of waving green grass, huge rolling rivers with the Abanis mountain range to the far south. The skies were clear as they headed into summer, the temperature mild. The whole company was in good spirits as they cantered across the Plains of Abanos. As they crossed over the border into Lorthia they moved up along the path of the Great Hern River, deep and dark, spilling over itself in swirling rapids and cataracts as it fell down towards Abalos-Colles from the high Lorthian Lakes. The air chilled slightly as they began to ride higher. The Bastryk Mountains rose tall and stark on their right; some of the highest peaks anywhere in the Empire were contained in that range and Jenevra and Spider Baudoin stood side by side, looking longingly at them.

Baran Wargentin stood by them, his deep voice naming the mountains as they were known locally. “The peak out to the far right, the one on its own, they call Solitude. The tall thin one, there,” he pointed to a mountain that looked as though it had been sheared in two at some point in time. “That’s Timoris … fear. I suppose because it’s supposed to be terrifying to climb, all those sheer faces.” He shrugged, obviously not a climber.

“Don’t tell them that, Your Highness,” Brogan joined them, pulling his cloak over his uniform against the chill air. “If there’s one thing guaranteed to make them want to climb a mountain, it’s to hear that it’s difficult.”

Baran beamed, a hugely toothy grin that made Jenevra smile too whenever she saw it, it was so completely overwhelming; just like Baran. “Then you want that one, Princess.” He pointed to the largest mountain they could see, whose top was lost in cloud. “We call that one Mortis … death.”

“Oh gods!” Brogan clapped his hand to his head. “Why did you tell them that?”

Spider and Jenevra were looking at each other questioningly, an irrepressible excitement in their eyes. Taking a step forward they looked up at the mountain again. “Prince Baran,” Jenevra began eagerly. “How long would it take to get to Mortis from here?”

Baran’s smile faded slightly. “How long? Your Highness isn’t seriously thinking of trying to climb Mortis?” One look at her face convinced him otherwise. “Oh, well, it’s a good two days ride from here to the base of the mountain.”

“Two days? It’s that far away?” Jenevra glanced disbelievingly at Baudoin. “D’you realize how big that thing must really be?” The gaze they were giving the mountain became almost reverent.

“No time, Captain,” Brogan broke the spell. “We don’t have time to waste getting to a mountain, that’s before you’ve even begun going up it.”

“You’re spoiling all my fun, Sergeant.” Jenevra glared at him. “Which one is nearest, Baran?”

Baran nodded his head towards a point on the mountain range which seemed to come out almost in front of them. “We’ll pass within half a day of Khadne, the storm mountain. We could make it there without too much trouble.”

“We don’t have time.” Jenevra hadn’t heard Ki-Nimh come up behind them.

“But it wouldn’t take long: just a day. We could call it training.”

Ignoring that, Ki-Nimh signaled to her that he wanted to talk away from the others. “Has anything else happened with the talisman yet?”

Jenevra shook her head. “No, it’s really quiet; has been since we left Kansk.”

“What do you mean ‘quiet’, Nimh’a? What’s different?” He looked intently at her. “Try to think about how it feels, it may be important.”

“It’s not like noise, Ki-Nimh; not really,” she tried to explain the curious sensation the talisman gave her. “It’s more of a feeling. You know that buzzing feeling you get when you hit something wrong with a sword … the one that goes all the way through you? Well, it’s sort of like a really light version of that all the time: as though you can almost feel the life of all the Nimhin within the stone. But the last day or so it’s been really faint. I can barely feel anything, whereas when we were at Mirizir I could feel it quite strongly. I know Misha could too, but it was often stronger when Misha was around.” She stopped, a shadow crossing her face. Shaking it off, she looked at her mentor. “What do you think it means, Ki-Nimh?”

He shook his head, frowning slightly. “I don’t know, Nimh’a; but I think we need to get to the Island as soon as we can. I’m not getting a good feeling about this. Dai-Nimh should have let us know by now if he wanted us back on the Island, yet neither of you have heard anything. Maybe it hit you both too hard the first time; disrupted the contact.”

“No, I’ve felt it since then. It usually gives me a sense of when something is dangerous, and I don’t have that now.” Suddenly thoughtful, she murmured almost to herself, “And that doesn’t make sense either.”

Ki-Nimh looked at her sharply, “What doesn’t make sense? This isn’t the time for secrets. If something changes, or something feels wrong, you need to let me know.”

“Whenever Misha was near me, I had a strong sense of danger. The talisman gives me a feeling that is almost painful, in my head,” she tapped her fingers on her forehead. “I talked to Misha about it, and we thought it was probably because he is quite dangerous.”

“But …” Ki-Nimh prompted.

Jenevra frowned. “So why aren’t I getting the same warning from the talisman now? You’re just as dangerous as Misha, if not more so. Maybe it was Corros, he was there too,” she mused.

“Let’s just wait and see,” Ki-Nimh rested one hand on her shoulder. “We’re heading for Liotchka, so just tell me if anything changes with the talisman. As soon as we can get to the Island for some answers, we will.”

As promised, Admiral Massili had arrived at the Lorthian Court just a day ahead of the royal party. Well-used to the annual visits of the flamboyant seaman, the Lorthian High Steward had taken care of him pending the return of the King and his family. Typically, Rafael had made himself quite at home, and the large party arrived in time to save Baran’s wife, Clera, from yet another hour of the Admiral’s reminiscences. Overwhelming relief flooded her face as she saw them all entering the main hall, and she hurried to greet them, wincing as she heard Rafael roar with delight at the sight of the new guests. Introduced to the Imperial Princess for the first time, Clera took to her straight away; Jenevra’s easy manners overcoming any qualms about rank that might have lingered, especially as Clera swiftly noted that neither Conall nor Baran stood on ceremony with any of the Imperial Party.

The Lorthian Palace was quite different from any of the others Jenevra had visited. It was far less a Palace and much more an extremely elaborate, huge hunting lodge. Constructed almost entirely from wood, it was warm and cozy, with a smell that reminded Jenevra of the forests of Northern Maressia; a mix of spruce and cedar that seemed to permeate everywhere. The ceilings were high with intricate carvings along rafters and gables, the various woods reflecting in warm pools of light from candles in highly polished surfaces. Tapestries and rugs in rich colors added another multihued layer of cheerfulness to the atmosphere. Unlike the sterile white marble of the Imperial Palace in Salanova, above all the Lorthian Palace felt like a home.

The Flight joined the Princes and the Admiral for their hunting sessions in the nearby forests over the next couple of days; supplying the evening tables with plenty of fresh game.

Jenevra and Allegra elected to stay with Clera. Hunting held no particular thrill for Jenevra, so it was no hardship to keep the pregnant woman company. Although Clera and Allegra were both several years older than Jenevra, they all shared a similarly sharp sense of humor, and they were both fascinated by the younger Princess’s training and outlook on life; so very different from their own. It was during one of these conversations that Jenevra discovered the curious connection between Prince Baran and Captain Tessier—they were brothers-in-law. Clera was Tessier’s younger sister; both of them belonging to a Ducal family just north of the Lorthian border with Maressia. The boys, Baran and Tessier, had known each other for years, and the families were very close. Jenevra realized, with a slight tinge of guilt, that she had never taken the time to really find out who half the people were that she’d met at the Imperial Court, and made a mental note to herself to pay more attention to the details.

When Odilia and Caddoc returned from the wedding, the young Queen joined them too, while King Caddoc joined his sons, and his old friend, Massili out on the hunt.

Still, there was no word from the ship used by the Order.

Ki-Nimh’s normally iron control was wearing thin; asking Jenevra about three times an hour if there was any change in the talisman, until she finally rounded on him. “Ki-Nimh, if you ask me that one more time Baudoin and I are going to disappear back to that mountain where you won’t be able to get to me! If you think we need to go to the Island that desperately, ask Admiral Massili if he can take us there.”

“We don’t know the way. The only one who knows the way is the ship’s captain, you know that.”

“But we could find it, couldn’t we?”

“How do you propose we do that?” He glared at her, exasperated.

She held the talisman up on its chain. “Couldn’t we use this?”

Kian’s long fingers rubbed his chin. “How?”

Screwing her face up a little, Jenevra thought it out aloud. “Well, if we assume that the feeling I get from it is connected to the Order, and the Order are all on the Island … wouldn’t it be reasonable to assume that I could sort of use the talisman in reverse, to find them, rather than for them to contact me?”

“I don’t know, Nimh’a,” he admitted. “What would we track? You said it’s been quiet. Can you get anything at all from it?”

“Not much,” she said. “But maybe it would be clearer out at sea; closer to the Island. I mean, we know roughly where it is, it would just be a case of homing in once we get near.”

“It’s worth a try, Nimh’a.”

That was when she understood how worried Ki-Nimh truly was.

Later that afternoon, when the hunters returned, tired, thirsty and successful, Jenevra made a beeline for Rafael Massili. “I need to discuss something with you, Admiral,” she stated formally. Dressed in her charcoal version of the Imperial army’s formal blue uniform, and with the Spirit Sword belted around her waist, she was obviously back in official Protector mode.

Slurping noisily through a foaming tankard of ale, Admiral Massili wiped his hand roughly across his beard and looked at her suspiciously. “What do you want Jenevra?”

“It’s Captain,” she reminded him. “This is official Empire business, Admiral. I need to use one of your ships, urgently.”

Rafael began shaking, his huge bulk heaving up and down, making his shaggy head and face look like a bouncing bush. A loud booming laugh suddenly erupted as the Admiral slapped his leg, almost doubling over in amusement. He continued roaring as Jenevra stood watching him, her expression becoming colder with each passing second. As he continued to show no sign of stopping any time soon, she turned on her heel, calling to the steward to request Sergeant Brogan’s presence immediately.

On Brogan’s arrival, Jenevra began giving him orders in a voice that carried clearly across the room. “Get the men ready to leave, Sergeant. Tell D’Agostino I need him to go ahead to the coast and prepare the Admiral’s ship to leave as soon as we arrive. He can take Wulfgar and Kallan with him if he needs any large scale support. Tell Laio he’ll be taking the horses north from the harbor. He’ll need some men with him. I’ll leave that choice to you; just make sure they won’t give him a hard time.”

Admiral Massili’s smile had begun draining faster than his tankard when he heard her announce she was taking his ship. “What in the gods’ names do you think you’re doing?” he thundered.

“I told you I need your ship Admiral. You don’t seem to be taking it seriously so I thought I’d better get things organized for you. I need to sail as soon as possible. If you won’t take me, I’ll just have to commandeer the ship as Imperial Protector.” Everyone else in the room had to admire the icy composure with which Jenevra faced the wrathful mountain.

“You can’t do that!” he bellowed, his face turning crimson with rage. “You don’t mess with my ships, Jenevra! No-one does.”

“Take it up with the Emperor, Admiral. I don’t have time.” She turned her back on him and stalked out of the room.

Slamming his tankard down on the table, Admiral Massili followed her, still spluttering in fury. “Just one minute young lady; I already have orders from the Emperor.”

“So do I. Surely you can take me where I need to go on your way? I just need to go north from here Admiral. It won’t take you more than a day or so longer and you could lose that sort of time if the wind’s against you anyway. Still,” she turned away from him so he couldn’t see her smile. “The place I’m aiming for is one you’ve never been to; probably never even seen. There’s only one captain I know of who knows how to find this place.”

“Impossible. I know everywhere in these waters,” Rafael huffed indignantly.

“Not this place,” Jenevra turned to face him, shaking her head. “But if you don’t want to chart its position then I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.”

She stood silently while the Admiral grunted, puffed and generally stewed himself into a grudging acceptance. “Alright miss, you can have your way, this time. But it’s my ship and you obey my orders when you’re on it, understand?”

“Of course, Admiral,” she agreed sweetly.

The Admiral stomped off moodily, muttering under his breath.

“Nice work,” Ki-Nimh stepped out from behind a thick pillar.

“He just can’t resist the idea of a place he doesn’t know about,” she grinned.

Thanks and Goodbyes said; arrangements made for Stephan to escort Allegra back to Abalos-Colles; Jenevra and the Flight were ready to head for the coast. Stephan had spoken to Jenevra and Richard the night before and told them he was planning to ask Phillip for permission to marry Allegra. He seemed genuinely startled that they weren’t surprised.

“He’s just thick, Richard,” Jenevra observed to her remaining brother. “It’s a wonder he puts his boots on the right feet in the morning really. He looks really impressive, but that brain … it’s frightening.”

“Just remember, Jenn, you’re talking about one of the Emperor’s closest advisors there,” Richard reminded her with mock seriousness, as they both smirked.

“Looks like it’ll just be the two of us then,” Jenevra noted wistfully. “It’s weird. I feel like I’ve only just come back and you’re all disappearing before I really have a chance to know you.”

“Well, I thought I’d stick around a while, if that’s alright with you? Kian invited me to travel on the ship with you.”

Jenevra hid her surprise, smiling at him. If Ki-Nimh set it in place, he must have a reason; it wasn’t her place to question her mentor’s decisions.

On board the ship the Admiral was in full voice, bellowing orders to all and sundry. As the princess and the Flight arrived he glowered at them. “Just don’t get in my way,” was his curt instruction to them. Pointing at Jenevra he told her, “No trouble. Do you hear me?” He lumbered quickly off along the deck, scowling deeply at the sweetly innocent smile she was giving him.

Gervaise D’Agostino had served on the Admiral’s ship before being pulled for the Imperial Flight, so he was soon back at work with his old friends. The other men of the Flight arranged themselves around the ship in inconspicuous spots. Six of them had stayed behind to help Laio with the horses and supplies. Bernardo was one of them, and Jenevra felt as though something was missing seeing him left behind on the shoreline as the breeze carried the ship out of the bay.

Deprived of their mountains, Jenevra and Baudoin found a certain comfort in scrambling up and down the masts and riggings much to the amusement of the Admiral’s crew. Rafael was far less amused when he spotted the barefooted Princess on the highest yardarm, strolling across it as if it was the deck. “Jenevra Couressime!” He screamed; purple veins on his neck standing out, not that they were highly visible under all the hair. “Get down here now!” The princess swung easily down a rope, landing with a final bound in front of him. Clenching his fists and trying to get control of his temper, he gritted his teeth. “Where is this place you want to go to?”

“North.”

He closed his eyes. “Where, north?”

“Don’t really know. It’ll become clear when we get near it,” she said lightly. “Just keep heading north, Admiral. We’ll find it.” She stretched up and patted him gently on the cheek. “You know you need to relax a bit. You’re looking awfully tense.” She skipped prudently out of reach before he could form a response, and went looking for Ki-Nimh who was standing at the front of the ship with Richard and Brogan.

Ki-Nimh gave her a disapproving look. “Why do you keep irritating him? We’re relying on him to get us to the Island.” He paused. “You need to start adjusting your thinking again before we reach the Temple, Nimh’a. Dai-Nimh won’t be thrilled if he has to start over again with you.”

“You’re right, Ki-Nimh. I’ll go get changed, maybe that’ll help me focus.” She disappeared into the ship, to the tiny cabin Rafael had allocated her. Digging through her pack she pulled out clothing she hadn’t worn since leaving the Island; misty colored loose trousers and light jacket, tied around the waist with a wide sash of a darker gray. Carrying her pair of swords in her hands she emerged into the bright daylight again, heading back to Ki-Nimh at the front of the ship.

Her mentor smiled. Bowing formally he greeted her, “Nimh’a”

“Ki-Nimh,” she returned a deeper bow.

“I think it’s time to get the talisman out,” Ki-Nimh said softly.

Nodding, she lifted the talisman on its chain, holding it in her hand, eyes closed, and facing out across the sea. After several long minutes she turned puzzled eyes to him. “Nothing,” she said. “Ki-Nimh, there’s nothing.”

“Try again.”

Allowing her mind to sink deeper into the mists that had covered her when the talisman had first been triggered, Jenevra reached out searching for some sign from the Island. Faintly she felt something hovering at the very edge of consciousness, like the shadow of a moth around a dying flame; a warning, a hint of darkness. Pulling herself back from the trance she looked at her mentor. “Nothing much, Ki-Nimh. There’s something there, but I can’t reach it.”

“Direction?”

“That way, I think.” She pointed to the northeast. Talisman clasped tightly in her hand, she stayed at the bow, until one of the lookouts called “Sail” several hours later. Totally ignoring the Admiral’s instructions, she bounded quickly to the top of the mast scanning the horizon for the ship that had been spotted. As they came up on it she drew a sharp breath; it was the boat that had carried her away from the Island, drifting.

“Ki-Nimh! It’s the Order’s ship!” she called down to him.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

As they closed on the ship, the Admiral gave orders for grappling hooks and ladders to be brought up ready to board the apparently unmanned vessel. Before anyone could get across though, Jenevra had swung out on a long coil of rope, catching the rigging and sliding to the deck of the smaller ship. Ignoring the ranting Admiral back on the deck of his own ship she looked around swiftly. There was no sign of the Captain or any of the crew. By now the hooks were dragging the two ships closer together and she could hear Rafael alternating between shouting orders and threatening her. “There’s no-one here,” she called across to them. “Not a soul. No sign of a struggle either.”

The Admiral’s men hesitated. Sailors are superstitious at the best of times and a ghost ship was certainly not a good omen. D’Agostino wasn’t going to leave his Captain alone on the ship though and swung himself over onto it. Seeing one of their own brave enough to go galvanized the rest of them into action, and soon a whole bunch were scouring the small ship for anything worth having.

Jumping easily back to the Admiral’s ship, Jenevra landed near Ki-Nimh. He looked deeply concerned now, and all trace of levity had disappeared from Jenevra’s manner too. “We have to find the Island, Ki-Nimh. Something is very wrong.”

He nodded; his lean face stern. “Keep going with the talisman, Nimh’a. It’s all we’ve got now.” He went to talk to the Admiral leaving Richard and Brogan with Jenevra. “Don’t leave her alone, whatever happens,” he ordered. “You remember how suddenly the last talisman event happened?” he reminded Brogan. “It could be the same again … or worse. Just make sure someone is with her.”

Jenevra stayed at the bow all night. Just after midnight Finn Corrigan and Ki-Nimh arrived to relieve Brogan and Richard. The night remained uneventful but, just as the first rays of golden sun were beginning to thread their way through the curling tendrils of sea mist; dappling the black waters of the horizon with tiger stripes, Jenevra suddenly clutched hold of her throat with both hands, gasping.

“What is it, Nimh’a?” Ki-Nimh held her tightly. “Are you alright?”

She nodded; her face ashen and her eyes watering. “Yes,” she gasped for air. “It hurts, Ki-Nimh. I mean really hurts.” She put a shaking hand on his arm. “We need to sail that way.” She pointed almost due east. As she slumped forward, unconscious, Kian felt for her pulse.

“Corrigan, go tell the Admiral to head east.” Finn disappeared silently.

Jenevra’s eyes flickered open. “Ki-Nimh?”

“Lay still, Nimh’a. It was the talisman again.”

“I know. But it was different; and it’s gone now.” She pushed to her feet, swaying shakily; her breathing ragged.

“Gone?”

“Gone,” she confirmed. “There is nothing; nothing at all.”

They exchanged a long, troubled look. “Go get whatever you need and meet me back on deck,” Ki-Nimh ordered softly.

In her cabin she delved once more into her pack, pulling out a roll of cloth which she laid out on the bed. Unrolled it contained a gleaming assortment of slim bladed knives from which she made a careful selection, sliding them into the wide sash around her waist. Checking over her swords carefully, she slipped them into loops positioned across her back on the sash, and headed up onto the deck again.

Within a few moments Ki-Nimh was there outfitted in the exact same manner except for the single long sword at his side; a Master’s sword. Side by side they faced into the sunrise, tense and wary, waiting for some sign that the Island was near.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

As thicker patches of mist began to lift, two simultaneous cries of “sail!” and “land!” rang out over the ship. To the west, almost at the horizon, a ship was disappearing. To the east, just a short way ahead, was a large Island covered in light colored trees.

Jenevra pointed towards the Island and the helmsman steered a straight course for the small spit of land that she indicated. Fortunately, the Admiral’s ship was small enough to get close to the natural jetty the land provided.

Ki-Nimh paced back and forth, uncommonly impatient as they waited for the helmsman to bring them close. Jenevra stayed more or less on one spot, bouncing on the balls of her bare feet slightly, hands opening and closing reflexively; eyes fixed on the Island. They could have been the only two people there; their focus was palpable. With curt instructions to half of the Flight to follow her in silence, Jenevra and Ki-Nimh drew their swords and literally flowed over the sides of the ship; their ash colored clothing rendering them almost immediately invisible as they disappeared into the pale green light of the ferns and bamboo groves.

Trying to keep up with them Brogan swore under his breath. Master Ki and Jenevra knew every inch of the place intimately, but none of the Flight had ever been here before. How could he protect the Captain when he didn’t even know where she was? There was no sound to follow. Signaling the Flight to stay together he led them up the steep hillside, through the tall whispering trees, trying to catch up with the princess and her mentor.

Emerging from amongst a thick stand of bamboo at the top of the hill, Jenevra and Ki-Nimh slipped noiselessly behind the cold stone of one of the Temple buildings. The place was silent. Not a bird or other creature could be heard: no sounds of the usual life of the Temple and its inhabitants. As Master, Ki-Nimh motioned for Jenevra to stay where she was while he moved down the steep steps that ran towards the central courtyard. Making a second gesture he sent her along the top level to come out on the steps at the opposite end of the building.

Swords poised, each of them descended the steps to the large terrace that ran in front of the storage buildings. Reaching it together they stared at the scene in front of them; the Temple buildings and courtyard that were home to both of them. Only now could they see underneath the vine covered trellis that shaded the courtyard. Only now did they see what had happened to the Order as they gazed, stunned, upon almost sixty gray clad bodies lying in pools of congealing blood, curdled with clumps of fallen blossoms, under the pale morning sun. Moving slowly down to the courtyard their eyes were wary, senses reaching out for danger, but there was no sense of it; just the overwhelming stench of death. Swallowing hard, Jenevra blinked back the tears that threatened her vision. “Ki-Nimh?” she managed a hoarse whisper.

Checking one of the bodies lying sprawled on the floor, he just shook his head.

Raising her eyes from the carnage, Jenevra noticed another corpse lying on top of a shorter flight of stairs. “No,” she breathed. “Ki-Nimh!” She ran across the courtyard, bare feet slipping in the slick blood. Flying to the crumpled body, she rolled it over. Like every other body they could see, this one had also been decapitated, but there was no mistaking it; Dai-Nimh was dead. Kneeling at Dai-Nimh’s side, Jenevra bowed her head on the hilts of the swords she held in front of her. Silently she prayed for him, and for the men, old and young who lay slaughtered below them.

As Ki-Nimh joined her, the Flight began to arrive at the top of the hillside, Brogan calling loudly for the princess, faltering into silence as they too discovered the fate of the Order. Walking along the terraced level, they reached the princess and Master Ki.

“What happened, Captain?” Simon, the young swordsman, was looking around him with horrified eyes. In two missions with the Flight this was the second massacre he’d seen.

“Who would commit murder in a place like this? It is a Temple; it’s a sacrilege.” Farid’s deeply held beliefs were highly offended by the sight of the bodies, clad in Temple robes, lying on the cold stone.

Jenevra stood up. “It was an execution.” She sheathed her swords, walking back down to the bloody floor and stood, looking around. “Ki-Nimh?” she asked again, but louder, more insistently. “Who’s missing?”

Ki-Nimh lowered Dai-Nimh’s body reverently to the ground, straightening the old man’s limbs and smoothing the blood soaked robe over him. “What do you mean, Nimh’a?”

“I count fifty nine. You, Misha and I make sixty two. There are three of us unaccounted for.” She took a deep, shaky breath and said, “We have to find the heads.”

Simon threw up.

Taking the Flight into account as if seeing them there for the first time, Jenevra sent Simon, Sasha, Danya and Dillon back to the ship, ostensibly for supplies. She sent Gavin Logansson with them to make sure the Admiral found some reason to keep them there. “Dillon certainly doesn’t need to go through this again, and the others are too young.” Focusing totally on the situation in front of her, the young princess appeared coldly unemotional.

Brogan cleared his throat pointedly.

“Feel free to go too if it’s getting to you, Sergeant” she said acidly. “This is my family. I’m going nowhere until we know who we’re looking for.” Frowning, she gazed around again. “It makes no sense. Why go to the bother of moving the heads? What’s the point?”

“Time,” Ki-Nimh observed cryptically; sudden grief making his stern face look much older. “The longer it takes us to find who’s missing, the longer the culprit has to make his escape.” Penetrating steely eyes connected with Jenevra’s. “One of our own did this. They know that we would not leave them like this.”

“They also know we would come, so why not wait for us and finish the task? At the most they would only be facing five of us, and they’ve just killed almost sixty. It doesn’t add up, Ki-Nimh.”

“Time,” he said again. “And emotional manipulation, to some degree. Those who weren’t here are all in danger. This slows us down while the murderer has a head start on the next victim.” He moved briskly towards her. “You’re right, though, we need to find the heads.”

“Captain,” Brogan interrupted. “What should we do with them?” He indicated the bodies still lying where they were found.

“Can your men lift them into the Temple?” Ki-Nimh asked. “Each of us has a place in there. The Nimh’a can tell you who’s who and where each of them should go.”

The Flight began the gruesome task of moving the headless bodies, while Jenevra pushed open the heavy bronze doors of the Temple. One of her favorite tasks at the Temple had been to fill the small prayer lamps with the fragrant oils that would burn with a green light, carrying their prayers to heaven with their scent. The perfume hit her senses as the doors swung open, making a confused muddle of her feelings. Bowing before she moved in to light some of the small lanterns from the one constant light burning by the door, she carried the larger lamp forward towards the altar.

“Ki-Nimh.” Her voice choked, Jenevra leaned one hand heavily on the door frame, her head bowed. “I’ve found them.” Fifty nine heads had been carefully piled on top of the altar, now defiled with the blood that had still been dripping from them.

A few hours later, Admiral Massili and Richard came ashore. A group of men were carrying water up from the sea, scrubbing the Temple courtyard. Most of the remaining members of the Flight were in the Temple with Jenevra and Kian. Rafael and Richard had been horrified that Jenevra was there in the midst of the carnage, but she blankly ignored their protests that she should return to the ship, and continued her task of identifying the dead Nimhin.

The interior of the Temple was surprisingly large, with small alcoves built around the edges of the main chamber. Each of the alcoves contained a single mat where one member of the Order could rest, pray or meditate. With all of the remaining corpses now reunited with their heads and placed around the Temple in their alcoves, there were six unclaimed spaces; four close to the altar, two near the doors.

Jenevra moved towards the doors. “This is mine.” She stood by one alcove and pointed directly across at the alcove opposite. “That’s Misha’s.”

Ki-Nimh nodded, thoughtfully. “This is mine. That one belongs to Oran-Nimh, that one is Alvar-Nimh’s. They’re both well into their eighties. I’d be surprised if they were capable of making the journey back here at their ages.” As he turned to the last space, his eyes closed in a belated comprehension; an almost visceral disgust as he realized that the Master who had ordered Misha and him to follow the princess to Salanova was almost certainly the one responsible for the carnage.

Jenevra stood next to him. “Jai-Nimh,” she whispered, remembering the number of times he’d called her in before the Masters’ Council criticizing her work, her behavior; trying to have her thrown out of the Order. “They would all have trusted him, Ki-Nimh, but I still don’t understand why they would stand in neat lines waiting for him to kill them.”

“Nimh’a,” Ki-Nimh thought carefully about his next words. “We can find out; or, at least you can. It’s not an easy thing to do, but it would have to be you or Misha and, obviously, Misha’s not here.”

“Let’s do it.”

Ki-Nimh held his hand out. “Not so fast. You need to understand what it is you’ll have to do.”

“Ki-Nimh, when have I ever not done what you asked of me?”

“This is different. If I had another way to do this I wouldn’t ask you. The other things were tests, things I’d gone through myself. I knew what I was asking you for. I’ve never done what I need you to do.”

“Can we please just get on with it?” One of the last bodies Jenevra had identified had been Dion, a young initiate at the Temple—the son of the innkeeper and his wife at Frann, who had been so kind to her when she first returned to Maressia. She remembered how she had assured them of Dion’s progress, and how happy he was at the Island. Now, she knew, she would have to return to tell them of his death … betrayed by a man they had all trusted.

Kian sighed; impatience was still her greatest weakness. “Go and sit in my alcove, Nimh’a. Start clearing your mind. You’re going to have to go into what happened here to find out.”

“How?”

“We’re getting to it. Just clear your mind as much as you can.”

Jenevra settled onto the mat in Ki-Nimh’s alcove, beginning the process of deep meditation, closing her eyes, and mind to the extraneous noise around them. As her breathing slowed, Ki-Nimh began talking to her softly, reminding her of the normal routine of the Temple, the activities she’d taken part in daily for so many years. He placed one of the prayer lamps nearby for its fragrance to help her memory.

Ki-Nimh took a deep breath. “I’m going to give you something to hold; something that was here at the Temple. You need to tell me what you can see through it.” From two alcoves down Ki-Nimh retrieved Dai-Nimh’s head, placing it carefully into Jenevra’s hands. Hearing the growing protest from the Flight, the Admiral and Richard, Ki-Nimh turned on them all. “If she can stand it, so can you,” he hissed at them. “You can wait outside if you’d rather.” He turned back to focus totally on Jenevra who seemed to be struggling with the contact she’d been asked to make. “Come on, Nimh’a,” Ki-Nimh urged. “You have to see through his eyes. We have to know what happened.”

Half an hour later, as Ki-Nimh led her slowly back out of the trance, she was paler than ever, and obviously shaken, but still ready to try to push, unsteadily, past them all. “Misha! Jai-Nimh wants the talismans and he’s going after Misha next!”

“Nimh’a!” Ki-Nimh grabbed hold of her arms, forcing her to sit back down in the alcove. “You’ve already sent Misha a warning, don’t you remember?”

She shook her head, trying to clear the fluffy feeling out of it.

“Nimh’a, you said there were men with Jai-Nimh. Did you recognize them? Could you tell where they were from?”

“Dai-Nimh will tell us,” she slipped out of the alcove again, padding along the floor to Dai-Nimh’s space. Forcing open his left hand, she held up a small item she found clasped tightly within it. Looking at it, she focused her eyes, suddenly snapping straight and springing across to better light by one of the windows to the side of the altar. “Bastard!” she cried, fury rising in her face.

“Nimh’a!” Ki-Nimh was shocked by the profanity.

Jenevra glared angrily at them all. Holding up the small item in her fingers she shouted, “This is what happens when you don’t deal with things as soon as you find out about them. I told Phillip he was trouble. And you knew it twenty years ago,” she pointed accusingly at Brogan. Throwing the item at them, she stalked out of the Temple.

Brogan picked it up; already sure he knew what it would be. In his hand lay a small brass button with the crest of the Count of Fetu-Vallis engraved upon it.

“Trouble?” Admiral Massili asked.

“Trouble,” Brogan confirmed grimly.

It was late evening by the time Kian and Jenevra had finished praying for the Order and leaving the Temple as they needed to, cleansing the altar of the blood. They were the last to return to the ship, solemn and exhausted. In a rare moment of thoughtfulness the Admiral had made his own cabin available for them to clean up in; his steward providing enough hot water for a decent bath each.

It was dark by the time Jenevra finally emerged on deck in clean clothes, damp hair braided simply down her back. Ignoring everyone else, she stood at the back of the ship, peering into the night as if she could still see the Island.

For the next day or so they headed west, aiming for the northern coast of Maressia Major, where they’d arranged to meet the rest of the Flight. Admiral Massili received orders before they left Lorthia to meet Commander Rabenaldt and the Border Patrol at that area, so it made sense to all aim for the same place.

Kian Menzetti stayed quietly on deck, mainly talking to Brogan, Richard and the Admiral. The few conversations he tried to have with Jenevra were short, each of them trying to deal with the grief they felt in their own way: both trying to keep the Order’s necessary sense of self-control intact. As Brogan had observed some time past, Jenevra’s way was simply to bottle it up; she spoke to no-one, ate almost nothing and, if she slept, no-one knew it. When Richard had tried to talk to her she had climbed back up to the high yardarm again and sat there alone. Baudoin and D’Agostino had both climbed up to her, but she simply ignored them.

It was with considerable relief that they saw land.

Bernardo, Laio and the Flight members who had ridden with them were waiting on the shore, having been watching for the ship for a day. They had horses enough for everyone, including the Admiral. “Commander Rabenaldt is camped just over the top of the cliffs,” Bernardo explained. “We explained that you were all with the Admiral and would be meeting us here. He has tents ready and, I believe, dinner is waiting too.”

Jenevra gave a quiet order for the Flight to mount up, and they all headed along the shore to the steep track leading up to the cliff top. The sight of the beach tugged at Jenevra’s memories of the day she and Misha had spent together at Mirizir, adding to the guilt she was feeling that they were not rushing to assure his safety.

Through Dai-Nimh’s eyes she had seen Jai-Nimh order the deaths of everyone on the Island, the old man last of all. She had heard him boast of a better Order, one that wouldn’t hide away with its strength and power, but would take its rightful place commanding the Empire. She had heard him tell Dai-Nimh of the contempt he felt for him, allowing the princess to join the Order; how, when he had Dai-Nimh’s and Misha’s talismans he would confront her; would break her with the knowledge that she was responsible for all of their deaths. Jai-Nimh’s animosity towards her personally had never made sense to her, but she felt a knowledge in Dai-Nimh’s mind, a knowledge of something about her that threatened them all, but she couldn’t reach it. Dai-Nimh had ordered the assembled men to remain at prayer for their attackers as Jai-Nimh’s men efficiently slaughtered them; she still didn’t understand why; it would have been easy for them to fight back. She knew Jai-Nimh would go for Misha’s talisman next. Then he would come looking for her—unless she found them first.

Something else had happened though, something that didn’t seem to have much relevance yet. In the only move any of the Order had made towards resistance, she had felt rather than seen Dai-Nimh’s serene face take on a smile unlike any Jenevra had ever seen from him; she almost wanted to say vengeful, but that didn’t seem like the gentle Master she had loved. Whipping his hands free, Dai-Nimh had grabbed hold of Jai-Nimh’s shaven head and pulled it close to his own face, forcing Jai-Nimh to look him directly in the eyes. A deep flash of fear had shot across Jai-Nimh’s face like summer lightning, before he had pushed the old man away. Slamming the unresisting Dai-Nimh to the ground, Jai-Nimh had personally taken the old man’s head; but Jenevra knew that the overwhelming feeling in Dai-Nimh at that time had been the deep elation of an undiscovered victory. Somehow, he had known what Ki-Nimh would need her to do; that she would connect with his mind in that way—almost as if he had meant for it to happen, so that he could pass the information to her in a way no-one would ever know. She knew there was more there he had to tell her, inside her now, that she would be able to find in time; it was just a question of meditation to unlock the secrets … whenever she could find the time, and the peace of mind, necessary.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Locked in isolated sorrow, Princess Jenevra followed Ki-Nimh, Richard and the Admiral to Raik’s command tent. Dismissing the Flight to dinner and rest, she wandered in behind the others; stopping in surprise at the sight of Mikyle Manvi. She simply hadn’t expected him to be there. Acknowledging Raik’s greeting with an absent nod, she dropped into a chair, accepting a large goblet of wine from Captain Manvi and draining it in one long draught. Missing Raik’s raised eyebrows, she accepted a second cup, not drinking this one down, but staring into it.

“Why don’t you show Captain Couressime to her tent?” he suggested to his steward. Watching Jenevra follow him impassively from the tent, Raik turned concerned eyes on the rest of them. “I had expected Tessier to have reached us by now. I sent him a message to meet us here for a conference. Still it doesn’t look like we can wait, so explain.”

Over dinner Ki-Nimh, Richard and Rafael told the two Imperial soldiers the story, as far as they knew it, from the first encounter with the talisman on the road to Mirizir to the slaughter of the Order on the Island.

“What’s Brogan’s take on this?” Raik asked them. “He’s been with her through all of it.” He called one of his Lieutenants to ask for the Flight’s Sergeant to join them. “Lord Menzetti,” He turned to Ki-Nimh. “You know Jenevra. How do we deal with this? I’ve certainly never seen her quite like this before.”

“Just Kian is fine, Commander,” he gave a brief smile. “I’m not too concerned about her. She can handle it; just give her time. Unfortunately, time is the issue for us as well, if the information she found on the Island is correct.”

“The information you say she got from a dead man’s head?” Mikyle Manvi queried with a note of revulsion.

“Yes,” Kian waved his hands vaguely, dismissing Manvi’s discomfort. “I know it sounds gruesome, but it was necessary … and I place absolute value on what she saw and heard. The point is that we believe Jai-Nimh is moving to take Mikhail Dhorani’s talisman. If he gets to Misha before we do—and in all honesty, I think that likely—then Misha’s death will really hit her hard, right at a time when Jai-Nimh will have control of two of the three talismans.”

“Yes, but what exactly does that mean?” Richard interrupted. “What will happen if this Jai person has two of them?”

“I don’t know, exactly.” Kian said quietly. “Dai-Nimh was the only one who knew. It’s entirely possible that Jai-Nimh could destroy them and that could potentially kill her too if the connection between all three talismans is still as strong as it should be.” He held up a hand as the others began to protest. “It’s an unknown factor that we have no control over, so I don’t see any point in worrying after it. I’m more concerned that the Nimha’s started thinking that she’s got to protect everyone again.” He paused briefly to nod at Brogan as he arrived. “She’s always felt as though she’s been held responsible for her parents’ deaths by her family. We spent a lot of time on the Island trying to get her over that sort of thinking, but after Albor and the Island she’s heading down that road again. She’s already shutting down from the Flight, from you Richard; you’ve seen that yourselves. She’s pushing everyone she cares about away; her theory being, if we’re not with her, we can’t get hurt. There’s a very good chance she’ll try to get to Misha, and to confront Jai-Nimh without any of us with her. She won’t accept putting anyone else at risk. If Misha dies, Tore knows what she’ll do. I think keeping Misha safe is a key issue right now.”

“I thought you said she’d sent some kind of warning to Dhorani?” Manvi asked.

“She did. At least we all heard her try to. We just don’t know if he got it,” Richard noted, deep concern showing in his face. “Look, maybe she just shouldn’t be doing any of this. Hasn’t that occurred to any of you? Can’t we just send her home?”

He flushed as five pairs of incredulous eyes stared at him.

“Your Highness,” Brogan began. “Have you met your sister? Send her home! We’d have to detail a Flight on her full-time just to make sure she stayed put. I believe Bernardo is currently arguing with her to get her to eat something; and, in case you’ve forgotten, this is the same young lady who wriggled through three thousand men, all of who were searching for her!”

“It’s not an issue,” Kian said decidedly. “As soon as we have a plan ready she’ll be there. And if we don’t have a plan pretty quickly, she’ll make one.”

Raik stood up. “So the question, gentlemen, seems to be how do we ensure Mikhail Dhorani’s safety?”

As they sat around the large wooden table, discussing options, they could hear some sounds of raised voices but not loud enough for them to distinguish the words. An increase in noise and movement outside had them edgy with anticipation, which was let down at the sight of a travel-stained Captain Tessier entering the tent, slapping dust off himself with well-worn leather gauntlets.

“Thank you all for that warm welcome,” Tessier bowed sardonically at the chorus of groans and exhaled breath that greeted him.

“We thought you were someone else,” Captain Manvi explained, shoving a full tankard at him in welcome. A sly twinkle appeared in his eyes. “Although you’re just the one we should send in ….”

Raik gave Manvi a long, hard look. “That’s all we need. And to think people accuse you of having no sense of humor!”

Mikyle Manvi smirked into his beer.

Tessier sat down at the table. “So what are we waiting for?”

“Him,” Brogan pointed at the tall figure of Bernardo standing at the tent’s entrance.

“I’ll be back.” Bernardo said loudly before turning and entering the Commander’s tent. He looked agitated and his hands were shaking slightly as he accepted a drink and a seat from Commander Rabenaldt. “That young lady … I swear … oh, sorry, Your Highness,” he noticed Richard there, and flushed.

“It’s quite all right, Bernardo,” Richard assured him. “You wouldn’t believe how many conversations we’ve had in our family that started with almost the exact same words!”

“What did you say to her?” Brogan was itching with curiosity. It wasn’t often he saw his old friend as agitated as this: he knew how much of a soft spot Bernardo had for the princess.

Bernardo hesitated. “Well, I wasn’t exactly tactful … or polite.”

“Those have never been good tactics to use with Jenevra,” Raik noted absently.

“I suppose the gist of it all was that I told her she needed to behave like a Flight Captain; to put the Flight first; eat something; get some real sleep and basically stop behaving like a spoiled little princess.” He paused again, looking rather ashamed of himself. “Or I’d put her across my knee and give her the spanking she deserved.”

There was a stunned silence. Then the tent erupted into laughter. Richard Couressime was wiping tears from his eyes; Rafael Massili was roaring as only he could, great booming laughs that filled the small space. Even Kian Menzetti was chuckling.

Raik, grinning broadly, topped up Bernardo’s beer and offered his hand to him. “Only you could get away with that and still live to talk about it, Bernardo. I may have to promote you!”

“I’m not sure I’ve got away with anything yet, Commander. Knowing the Captain she’s probably trying to sneak out of the back of her tent by now.”

Brogan raised his eyebrows. “You took care of that though?”

Bernardo nodded, a smile emerging. “Spider and D’Agostino are watching.”

“You’re very quiet, Tessier,” Mikyle Manvi said. “Not like you.”

“Sorry, what?” Tessier looked at Manvi, bemused, as if just noticing him. “Sorry, you lost me at the part about spanking the princess.” He beamed, dazedly.

“Tessier! That’s my sister you’re leering at!” Richard punched Tessier hard on the shoulder.

“I know. Bizarre isn’t it? But why’s everyone so concerned about her all of a sudden?”

As they began to tell the entire tale again, Bernardo and Richard left for Jenevra’s tent. “You’re the only one who can decently stay with her, if we have to leave anyone with her all night,” Bernardo explained to Richard. “She was muttering something about making her way to meet Prince Mikhail; and tracking down this Jai-Nimh fellow.”

Richard nodded. “That’s what Kian said.” He sighed. “What happened on that Island was horrific though. Even if she hadn’t spent all those years with all those people, I’m not surprised she can’t sleep.”

Jenevra was sitting by a rough table in a small, dimly lit tent; elbows on the table, she rested her face in her hands; a haunted look in her eyes. The plate of food lay on the table, to all appearances untouched. At Bernardo’s huffed breath, she looked up at him. “I ate some of the chicken. I did. Look there’s a bone there.”

“It’s not enough, Jenn.” Richard sat down opposite her.

“I can’t.” Her voice choked, but there was no sign of any tears.

“What about drinking something? Beer? Wine? Whatever it takes. Maybe you just need to get absolutely drunk?” Richard’s suggestions brought a slight smile to her face.

“Maybe milk?” She glanced up at Bernardo. “Without any additions,” she added pointedly. “So,” she turned to Richard as Bernardo left, muttering under his breath. “When do we leave?”

“Raik’s got scouts out. As soon as he gets word back we’ll go, and not before.”

“But we need to be moving now. It’ll be too late.”

“Jenn! If they weren’t so busy worrying about you, maybe they’d move faster for Dhorani.”

“Why’s anybody worried about me?” Jenevra’s head came up in genuine astonishment. “I’ll be fine. I’m just tired, and sad, and that’s not going to change any time soon.”

Bernardo came back in, slammed a mug down on the table, and stalked out again.

“Look, Jenn,” Richard ran his hands over his face, pushing his fingers up through his short fair hair until it stood on end. “Maybe if you just get back to annoying every one like normal, maybe that’ll convince them. But this whole silent, independent thing isn’t going to work. Why don’t you get some sleep? They’ll all relax a bit if they think you’ve at least slept. To be honest, so will I.”

Jenevra glared at her brother for a moment then moved to a shadowy corner of the tent where a small camp bed had been set up. Flopping down on it, she closed her eyes, crossed her legs at the ankles and folded her arms. “Fine, go tell them I’m asleep … and I expect to be leaving at first light.”

“Your Highness!” Brogan’s tone was slightly reproachful. “Surely you didn’t believe her?” He dived out of the command tent to check with his sentries, returning a few brief moments later. “Well, no-one’s seen her leave. I suppose that’s something.” He scratched at his beard. “Still, I should make sure the Flight is ready to move quickly.”

“I guess I’d better get back in and stay with her,” Richard grumbled. “I’ll take some of that with me though.” He picked up a full flagon of ale and disappeared back to Jenevra’s tent.

To all intent the princess did actually seem to be asleep, and Richard relaxed marginally as he sat at the table. “Come in,” he replied softly to a quiet call from outside the tent, and Blaise Tessier appeared, with Mikyle Manvi.

“Thought you might appreciate some company,” Tessier whispered. “You can’t stay awake all night on your own.” He waved another large flagon at the Prince. “We’ve plenty of company here!”

Richard gestured to the seats on the other side of the table. Winking at Manvi, he turned a sly look on Captain Tessier. “You look really tired, Tessier. Too many women?”

Tessier shook his head. “I wish,” he murmured. “No, I just haven’t been sleeping too well lately.” He turned a wry glance towards the sleeping princess. “I think it’s all her fault. I don’t seem to be able to get her out of my head.”

“You can’t blame her for that. Exactly where do you stand with my sister anyway, Captain?” Richard said, turning to look at him. Everyone knew of the mutual irritation the princess and the captain caused each other and, mostly, they were amused by it. Captain Tessier’s tawny good looks and slyly suggestive smile made him very popular with the ladies of the Court, most of who were the polar opposite of the unvarnished, unpolished and unkempt Imperial Princess. Jenevra regarded the Captain as the worst sort of womanizer, and had only succeeded in misunderstanding any friendly overture he had made.

Tessier shrugged. “I wish I knew, Your Highness,” he sighed. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone else quite like her.”

“She is unique,” Richard agreed dryly.

“She’s incredibly annoying. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who irritates me quite as much as your sister does. Then you catch a glimpse of vulnerability in her … or at least you think you do. She’s a bundle of contradictions, but it’s strangely addictive. Of course, there’re the eyes too. I don’t know how anyone could look into those eyes and not be caught by them.”

“That’s very true. The Couressime eyes are totally irresistible,” Mikyle Manvi nodded sagely, patting Tessier on the back of the shoulder, an unfathomable smile lighting his own dark eyes.

Tessier leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he gazed intently at the sleeping Princess. “She looks so fragile, and then she goes and puts most of us to shame with what she can do with a sword. Her Flight are so besotted with her it’s positively nauseating. But, as I haven’t thought about another woman since we left Salanova, it’s possible I’m becoming equally obsessed,” he admitted, with a sigh.

“You think?” Blaise missed Mikyle Manvi’s eyes rolling at this point.

Tessier’s face closed a little. “But she’s in love with that idiot Dhorani. Even though he tried to take the Protectorship from her and tried to kill her: Even though he wasn’t willing to stand up to his father and refuse to marry anyone else.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Well, Tessier, I actually think that any man in his right mind would be running screaming in the opposite direction.” Richard reached across and refilled all their cups. “She’s not what you could call easy to live with.” He put a foot up on the table, tilting his chair backward. “But I don’t think she’s in love with Mikhail Dhorani.”

Tessier’s head came up in sudden interest. “You don’t?”

Richard shook his head. “She’s the most stubborn person I know. D’you really think she’d have just walked away if she was in love with him? I don’t think she’d know love if it jumped up and bit her, anyway.”

A look of hope dawned on Tessier’s face as he resumed his intense observation of Jenevra. “Why don’t you get some sleep?” he suggested to Richard and Mikyle. “I’ll watch her.”

Richard smiled. “I can see that. I think we’ll go grab something else to eat, though. Should we bring you something back?”

“Whatever …” Tessier waved vaguely at him, more concerned with the shadow of a frown he thought he saw on Jenevra’s face. As the tent closed again behind them, Tessier moved the candle closer to the edge of the table, throwing the tiniest quantity more light into the corner. He was sure he hadn’t imagined it; the princess’s sleep was becoming more fitful; her hands clenching into fists.

Within moments it was obvious that the princess was in the middle of a nightmare. Tessier called hoarsely for Richard, trying not to wake Jenevra; everyone said you shouldn’t wake someone in a nightmare, or was that sleepwalkers? Cold as winter on a battlefield, here in the princess’s tent Captain Tessier began to panic. It was one thing to be near the princess when her brother was there, but another entirely when they were alone: and he knew she wouldn’t be happy to find him there. Sticking his head out of the tent he told the nearest sentry to go find Prince Richard. But, as Jenevra threw one arm across her face as if warding off a blow, Tessier couldn’t stand it. He moved across to the camp bed, perching right on the edge of it, his hands hovering over her, unsure of whether or not to touch her, as Jenevra muttered softly in her sleep. “Princess!” he whispered desperately. “Princess! Wake up. It’s alright.” His heart nearly jumped straight out of his chest as Jenevra sat bolt upright, unseeing eyes searching around her blindly.

Tessier did the only thing he could think of; putting his arms around her, holding held her tightly to him feeling her trembling; uncertain as to whose heart was beating the more erratically. Pulling her head to his shoulder, he stroked her hair gently: closing his own eyes as he rested his cheek against her hair and hoped Richard would get back quickly.

Jenevra’s nightmare had plumbed new depths. Amongst the grieving families she had been used to seeing, now she found the disembodied heads of the Order calling for her to stop Jai-Nimh; to put everything else aside to stop him. The body she cradled in her arms wore variously the faces of her family, her Flight, Misha; even faces she didn’t recognize. The image had changed slowly, flowed into a vision of Jai-Nimh with a figure she recognized. Not believing what she was seeing, Jenevra’s mind struggled against the dream; against the knowledge Dai-Nimh had made sure she would have. How the old man could have known she would read his mind the way she had, she didn’t know; but she understood exactly what he had been trying to tell her from beyond this world. Understanding, and hating them all for it, she screamed her hatred at Jai-Nimh as she pulled herself up and out of the darkness.

Slowly gaining awareness of where she was Jenevra allowed the strong arms to hold her, relaxing little by little as she remembered Richard in the tent with her. Rubbing her face against his shoulder, she moved closer with a deep sigh. Her heart was still pounding and her breathing ragged. Somewhere outside of her she could hear a voice murmuring, as the embrace clasped her safely closer again; now she was aware of one hand on her hair, stroking down the back of her neck. Drowsily, her senses registered the smell of dust and horses, a faint hint of lemon or mint; the unexpected softness of the long hair her face was nestling into; the soft scratch of an unshaven face against her neck. Except that Richard didn’t have long hair …

Faint stirrings of unease were threading through her consciousness as Captain Tessier lost his personal battle and kissed the base of her neck. Pushing her thick braid to one side, he began nibbling his way up the side of her throat, encouraged by the slight gasp he heard, and feeling her quiver as he hit a sensitive spot.

Warned by some preternatural sibling connection, Jenevra pushed Tessier away from her slightly just as Richard and Mikyle came back into the tent, eyes widening rapidly as they saw Blaise Tessier sitting on the side of Jenevra’s bed, arms around her.

“I’ll thank you to remove your hands from my sister, Tessier.” Richard actually sounded more amused than annoyed as he watched Tessier back away from the princess rather self-consciously. “Well?” He turned a sardonic gaze on Jenevra, now sitting cross-legged on the bed.

She shrugged. “I guess I must have had a nightmare again. I have them all the time. I suppose Captain Tessier was trying to stop me panicking, or something. I don’t know. I thought it was you. You were the only one here last time I looked.”

“Actually, I was trying to wake her up. She was dreaming—a bad one. She didn’t seem to know where she was, so I was just holding on to her … until she woke up.” Tessier’s explanation didn’t even sound convincing to himself, although it was, more or less, the truth.

“Really?” There was no mistaking the sarcasm. “I think I can take it from here.” Richard held the tent open. “Good night, Captain Tessier.”

Blaise turned and bowed to Jenevra. “Good night, Princess.”

“Good night, Captain. And, thank you.” Her face was hidden in shadows, but he could have sworn it sounded like she was smiling.

CHAPTER THIRTY

By the time Jenevra had roused a startled Flight the next morning and run them through a highly unexpected few miles of undulating coastline, she was starting to feel a little more like herself again. The Flight wasn’t entirely thrilled about her sudden return to form, being quite satisfied with the lethargic Captain they’d experienced for the last few days. But recent events had seriously curtailed their routine and it was obvious that the Captain had decided to remedy that fact.

Richard Couressime had also been treated to a further shocking development in his sister as she had dragged him from his bed to go with them. “You can run some of that ale off,” she had told him, poking one sharp finger into his stomach.

Focused on what the day might bring, Jenevra bounded into Commander Rabenaldt’s tent shortly after the Flight’s return to camp. “Morning, Commander. Are the scouts back? Any news of Misha? When do we move out?”

Raik gave her a brief smile. “You’re feeling better then? Good. You’ll just have to wait for everyone else to get here. We’ll discuss the situation then and decide our plans from there.” As she opened her mouth to object, he pointed to a chair. “Sit down and be quiet.” He continued to inspect the equipment that was laid out ready for him. “Did you take your Flight out running?”

Jenevra nodded, accepting the cup of water Raik’s steward had brought her, knowing of her preference. “I took Richard too.” She grinned wickedly. “I’m sure he’ll join us as soon as he’s finished throwing up.”

Taking in her outfit, Raik pursed his lips. “Expecting trouble? You seem to have enough weaponry to invade a small kingdom on your own.”

“It never hurts to be prepared for all eventualities, Commander.” Jumping to her feet, Jenevra began pacing around the tent in her habitual impatience. “Well, where are they all? Great Tore, you’d think they could all move when there’s the chance of a fight wouldn’t you?” She swung round, leaning forward onto the table. “Why don’t I just run on ahead with my Flight, Raik? We can look out for anything—” She broke off as Raik’s glare gave her the answer she didn’t want.

It took almost an hour for everyone else to gather at the command tent. The front was tied back, allowing their meeting to spill outside of the tent. Captain Manvi had all ten of his lieutenants with him, Captain Tessier had only brought one squadron down from Bortka, so he just had the one Lieutenant present and Raik had his officers from the Border Patrol. Brogan and Spider Baudoin represented the Shadow Flight, and Richard made a late entrance glaring balefully at Jenevra. Admiral Massili had stayed, too, although he had no plans to become involved in any land action.

As Commander Rabenaldt laid out the current situation for everyone present, Blaise Tessier wended his way through the gathering to stand just behind Jenevra’s right shoulder. “Morning Captain Couressime,” he murmured into her ear, one hand sliding gently to the small of her back. “Sleep well?”

“Not after you appeared in my nightmare.” She kept her gaze focused on Raik.

“Don’t blame me. You thought I was your brother, remember? Although that would suggest a strangely close relationship…ow!” He yelped as she brought her heel down hard on the top of his foot.

“Problem, Captain Tessier?” Raik frowned at them both.

“Thanks, Princess.” Tessier’s moustache tickled her ear.

“You deserved it.”

“For what?”

“Last night.”

“What? I thought you were enjoying yourself.” He blew softly down the side of her neck, smirking as she shivered. “See?”

“Stop that!” She flashed him a glance of bright blue lightning. “I’m trying to listen.” She folded her arms determinedly.

“You really should dismiss your tailors, Captain. They seem to be having all sorts of problems making your clothes the right size.” Tessier whispered, leaning closer to her again, his hand sliding lower onto her hip. “Although it does make me want to put you over the front of my saddle again.” He noted the tension building in her with a perverse satisfaction.

“Sorry I don’t meet with your approval, Captain Tessier. I thought these would be just perfect for distracting the enemy—and there’s always the look on all of your faces that’s an added bonus.” She smoothed down the front of yet another of the outfits Christiana had ordered made; a meticulously fitted short jacket with skin tight pants, all in black. With her silver swords crossed over her back, the ruby hilted Spirit Sword belted around her waist and blue eyes glinting dangerously Tessier thought back to her Investiture when she had worn the gleaming white uniform. The current clothing molded to her skin made her look more like a fallen angel than the vision of innocence from several weeks ago and took his thoughts in directions he had little control over.

Dragging his attention back to the meeting, Tessier realized that Jenevra was leaning forward, listening avidly to a scout’s breathless report to Commander Rabenaldt. Two forces had been spotted moving towards each other less than a day’s ride to the south of their current position; one had been identified as flying the banner of Aleksander of Abalos-Colles, the other was not identified but was by far the larger force. The scout gave the opinion that they would not necessarily meet today, but would certainly be in position for the next morning.

“Jai-Nimh won’t wait until morning.” Jenevra spoke out. “If he meets them tonight, he’ll attack tonight.”

“And you’re assuming that the other force belongs to this Jai-Nimh,” Tessier countered. “We have no evidence of that. Where would he have found this army if he’s just one of your Order?”

“Diruthia. The evidence would be the button we found on the Island.”

“Oh come on, Captain, you’re just obsessed with Diruthia. Where’s the real evidence? What possible connection could there be between a member of your Order and Diruthia?”

“Jai-Nimh is the uncle of Corros, the current King of Diruthia. He’s the younger brother of Corros’ father.” Kian Menzetti spoke up quietly. “He had to resign his claim to the throne when he became a Master within the Order.”

There was a deep silence.

“And you didn’t think this was important enough to tell us?” Raik’s tone was incredulous and angry. “You,” he pointed at Jenevra. “You had a duty to tell us!”

“She didn’t know.” Kian said. “Only the highest Masters know everyone’s background.” He turned and slipped quietly out of the tent, heading towards the Flight.

“Surely the point now is that there are two opposing groups about to meet on Empire territory and we should be there—not standing around here arguing about who should have done what?” Jenevra’s voice rose above the whispered conversations that had broken out. “My Flight is ready, Commander. We could be there before they meet.” Her hand clenched open and closed on the hilt of the Spirit Sword as her eyes met Raik’s, pleading with him to let her go.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tessier said, next to her. “You won’t be going anywhere near it all.”

“I beg your pardon?” Jenevra’s fury was sheathed in ice. “I thought we’d settled all those doubts a few weeks ago outside Salanova,” she argued. “Do I have your permission to take my Flight out Commander?”

Raik hesitated, and Captain Tessier took his life in his hands again. “Your Flight is a joke, Princess. Nobody ever expected them to go into battle; they’re just there to keep you busy. I’ve told you before. And especially now, you’re not going to go running after that fool Dhorani. You are remembering he’s married now, aren’t you?”

Jenevra’s fist sent Captain Tessier sprawling across the tent as her anger flared in total frustration at not being on her way to save Misha. “Your problem, Blaise Tessier, is that you have no idea of who you are dealing with. I’m not some flighty simpering court idiot whose only waking thought is how to find a husband. I’m a Couressime, an Imperial Princess, a Nimhin and Imperial Protector. Every duty I was born into is combined in what I am doing today, and you aren’t going to stop me!” She stalked across to Raik, standing in front of him hands on her hips. “Permission?”

As Raik frowned, she blazed at him, “This is what my Flight was formed for Commander—and the Border Patrol come to that.”

He nodded a grudging acceptance of the point. “Alright, Captain; take your Flight out. Find them. Identify them if you can but do not get involved unless there’s fighting, and that’s an order, Captain. If it comes to it then help protect the talisman, but only if there’s any danger of it being taken, understand? Everyone else, get your Flights ready. We leave as soon as we can.”

Brogan, Spider and Jenevra were already outside. The Shadow Flight had been watching and waiting; sure enough of their Captain to know that when Kian told them she would be leaving soon they would need to be ready. As the three emerged into the daylight, the flight galloped towards them, three horses free on the outside column. Swinging smoothly up into their saddles on the run, they thundered impressively out of the encampment in one tight formation heading south for battle.

Richard and Mikyle Manvi were helping Captain Tessier to his feet as Jenevra’s Flight left.

“What on earth possessed you?” Richard couldn’t help admiring the large bruise already appearing on Tessier’s face.

“Well, someone had to say something to try to stop her.” Tessier rubbed gingerly at his jaw. “Tore, she’s got some arm on her,” he noted, smiling to himself.

“But why do it, Tessier?” Richard prodded. “I mean, why make her that mad? I thought you wanted her to actually like you? I’ve got to tell you, you’re really going about it all the wrong way.”

Tessier beamed crookedly. “If she’s that mad at me, at least she won’t be thinking about Dhorani. In fact, I’ll bet she’s so angry right now that she can’t get me out of her mind. And she’ll be too mad to focus herself to use that damned talisman if she tries to. Won’t that stop the contact: stop this Jai-whatsit fellow getting to her? That’s what Kian was talking about last night wasn’t it?”

Richard and Mikyle stared at him.

“You came up with that all on your own?” Manvi asked.

“I can’t help it if you all underestimate me,” Tessier sighed piously, tying his hair back as they walked along. “It’s a curse you know, being this gorgeous. People never think you’ve got a brain.” A huge grin spread over his face. “She called me Blaise,” he noted with satisfaction to no-one in particular.

Shadow Flight rode almost in silence, each of them making mental adjustments for the possibility of battle. Albor hadn’t been a confrontation, nor had the Island. This might be their first real chance to prove themselves as a unit. Jenevra rode at the head of the Flight with Ki-Nimh, Brogan and Baudoin. Tense and focused, her hands were still light on her reins Brogan noted with some satisfaction. They made good time, interspersing flat gallops with periods of walking the horses to conserve them. As twilight began to fall, dimming the warm summer evening to misty lavender, they came to a small copse of trees trailing across a hillside. Bernardo and Bran had ridden back to them, from scouting on ahead; advising that at least one of the forces they were looking for was camped just ahead of them, over the rise.

Jenevra called the Flight to a halt to water the horses at a small stream running down through the tall stand of ash and elder. Moving quietly among the Flight, she gave orders for setting up a dark camp—no fires, no lights of any kind, hidden between the sheltering trees. She spoke with Bernardo, ensuring he would find time to speak to the newer, young members of the Flight, putting them at ease as much as possible. “We both know a certain amount of nervousness is normal,” she noted. “I trust you, Bernardo. Use your own judgment on this one. Keep them close.”

“And you, Captain,” the tall man folded his arms. “How do I keep you close?”

She smiled, wistfully. “I have a job to do.”

“Just don’t go doing anything stupid,” Bernardo added gruffly. “That prince has had the same training as you. Let him fight his own damn battles.”

Patting him on the arm she moved away into the gathering shadows, calling for Spider and Bran to follow her up the long slope. Unbidden, Ki-Nimh and Brogan followed behind them, both unwilling to let the princess out of their sight for too long. They reached the top fairly quickly, the ground becoming suddenly steeper and rockier; requiring more scrambling than walking. Staying low, the three crawled the last few feet to peer over the crest of the hillside. Jenevra rolled her eyes at the arrival of Kian and Brogan, but said nothing.

A low broad valley lay before them; long grassy slopes of waving rye grass leading to a small river threading across the floor in a silvery ribbon. The trees Shadow Flight were camped in continued threading their way over the rise to the left of their current position, peering around the edges of the valley. A sprawling encampment lay between them and the river, cooking fires plainly visible even through the light mist that was settling along the low banks of the river; but, as far as they could see, only one group.

“Maybe Prince Mikhail hasn’t reached here yet?” Spider suggested.

Jenevra frowned. “I don’t know,” she said, doubtfully. “Raik’s scouts suggested that Misha would be at this area first.” She hesitated briefly before turning to Ki-Nimh. “It doesn’t feel like we’ve missed anything. What do you think?”

Ki-Nimh shook his head. “I don’t think so, Nimh’a. There’s no smell of battle. Do you get any sense of it, Sergeant?”

Brogan agreed with him. “No sign of a fight anywhere I can see.” He looked across at Kian and Jenevra. “Any chance this Jai-Nimh could have just overwhelmed them?”

“It’s possible,” Kian conceded, cracking his knuckles absently. “We don’t know what size force Misha set out with, and if this is Jai-Nimh’s…”

“Only one way to find out who’s down there then.” Jenevra unbuckled the Spirit Sword, handing it over to Brogan who was spluttering objections. “Don’t start, Brogan. I can get in and out of there without anyone seeing me. I know who and what I’m looking for. Spider, keep these for me.” She handed over her twin swords. “No point taking them; they wouldn’t be a lot of use against an army that size anyway.” Five other knives appeared from various places which she deposited with Spider too. She pulled her black jacket off, revealing a thin silk shirt of the same color.

“You can’t go down there unarmed!” Spider hissed.

“Unarmed?” She grinned at him. “I’ve got everything I need on me. Trust me.” Before they could stop her she’d slithered over the top of the hill and was moving quietly down through the rock on the other side.

Brogan was mumbling every curse word he could think of under his breath.

Ki-Nimh placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. If anyone can get in and out, it’s her.”

“And if she doesn’t? What happens then? You do realize Commander Rabenaldt will have us all strung up by the balls, don’t you?”

“She’ll be fine. Have a little faith man. She knows what she’s doing.”

Watching the sentries from the long damp grass, Jenevra lay still and silent for a long time, observing their movements. A simple pattern, she thought; obviously Jai-Nimh hadn’t established his usually perfectionist tendencies over the whole army. Sliding through the long grass like a breath of wind she positioned herself nearest to a spot shadowed by the hill and waited for the sentries to move to their furthest points away. Once past them she used the tents to cover her progress through the camp; dying fires providing enough light to find her way while also helpfully throwing shadows that she simply became part of. It quickly became apparent that the bulk of this army was of Diruthian origin as she heard the accent time and again as she slipped through the camp. Narrowing her eyes she thought back to Ki-Nimh’s revelation that Jai-Nimh was related to the royal house of Diruthia. It still didn’t explain his defection from the Order though, and she gnawed at the idea like a hangnail.

At the center of the camp were several large tents. One was emblazoned with the coat of arms she’d etched into her memory … the arms on the buttons from Albor: the arms of the Count of Fetu-Vallis. Even as she began to move towards the tent she stopped, knowing anger and impatience were clouding her judgment. Taking several long slow breaths to counter the vicious pain now welling up from the talisman, and to refocus, she waited, listening. Sentries surrounded the largest tent where there were lights and voices, but not the others. The tent opened, revealing Prince Cieren of Diruthia, leaving and heading for his own tent. Before the tent closed Jenevra thought she saw Jai-Nimh, always distinctive even on the Island by his preference for a shaved head; the only one of them not to have worn a braid. Making a simple deduction Jenevra reasoned that the remaining large tent must belong to another leader. She was completely unprepared to see Mikhail Dhorani emerge from Jai-Nimh’s tent and move purposefully into that last one; apparently quite at ease with his current company and certainly not under any guard that she could see.

She paused in the shadows, pondering what it might mean: obviously, in a camp of this size, there was little point in his trying to fight his way out of it, but he hadn’t looked as though he was feeling threatened. Her mind twitched through several uncomfortable thoughts: Cieren was Misha’s brother-in-law now, and Jai-Nimh was Cieren’s father’s uncle. Cieren and Misha had been together at Misha’s wedding. But why were they both here now with Jai-Nimh? Maybe Misha had just responded to Jai-Nimh as a Senior Master; after all Misha didn’t know about the massacre on the Island.

Pushing useless speculation aside, Jenevra crept around until she reached the back of Misha’s tent, waiting silently, patiently, until she heard him settling onto his bed. Like a wisp of smoke she slid underneath the heavy canvas walls of the tent. The dim light from a small oil lamp sputtered in one corner of the tent, throwing dark shadows over the furthest corners. Reaching out to place a hand over Misha’s mouth she froze, feeling the cold touch of a blade at her throat.

“Misha? It’s me.”

“I know.” The blade pushed her back, maintaining its pressure.

Slowly and easily she sat back on her heels. “You don’t need that, Misha.”

“Don’t I?” Jenevra had never heard Misha’s voice so cold.

“Not with me, Misha. Never with me: you know that. What’s wrong?”

“What do you want, Jenna?” Misha’s tone was bland, indifferent. He sat on the edge of his bed, still holding his knife against Jenevra’s throat as she knelt in front of him. The hazel-green eyes she knew so well were flat and hard as jade.

“I came to help you. At least that was the plan. Didn’t you get my warning?”

“Help me? How? Why? What makes you think I want help? And why would I need it from a traitor like you?” The edge of the razor-sharp knife dug into her skin, drawing blood. Misha could see her face clearly, the faint glow from the lamp throwing shadows around her familiar form. Striking like a snake he lunged forward, one hand closing tightly around her throat as the back of her head hit the floor hard. His tone changed, suddenly becoming almost anguished. “Why, Jenna? Was it just ambition?”

“What in the gods’ names are you talking about?” she gasped as she writhed under his choking grasp, trying to unbend her legs from underneath her; unable to believe this was really Misha. Never in all her nightmares would she have dreamed she would need to defend against Misha; against the one person she had thought she could always trust–and yet here she was for the third time since leaving the Island trying to stop him. Everything she thought she knew was unraveling around her.

“Jai-Nimh’s told me everything, Jenna—everything. How could you? Still, I suppose you always were Ki-Nimh’s pet. Is that why you didn’t want me? Why have the student when you can have the Master?”

“What?” One arm still pinned underneath her Jenevra writhed trying to free it, unable yet to pull his hand away from her neck as he leaned forward onto her heavily. As his free hand began tearing at her shirt, for the first time a cold wave of anger touched her, and trained reaction swept in. Twisting viciously, wrenching her arm and legs free, Jenevra broke his hold on her throat, pushing away and springing to her feet; slim bladed knife appearing in her hand. “I don’t know what Jai-Nimh’s told you, Misha, but he’s lying,” she whispered harshly. “Ki-Nimh and I went to the Island. They’re all dead, Misha … every last one of them. We’re the only ones left.” She spoke low and fast. “Jai-Nimh did that, Misha. He executed them: everyone from the newest novice to Dai-Nimh. He wants the talismans. That’s why he wants you with him. He’ll kill you for it.”

“Jai-Nimh executed them and wants to kill me?” Misha’s mouth twisted scornfully, as he held his talisman up to her. “So how is it that I’m still here? Not dead, Jenna, and with Jai-Nimh. How is it that I’m still alive, and you’re the one holding a knife on me?”

Jenna put her fingers to her neck, pulling them away, glancing pointedly at the blood on them. “I’m not the one who drew metal first … who broke our Oath, Misha.” She looked into his face, a cold knot forming in her stomach as she saw madness hovering in the flat jade eyes. “I can prove it to you.”

“How?”

“The talismans. I can show you what I saw on the Island.”

Misha laughed, scornfully.

Jenevra felt sick inside. She didn’t want to go near him again, but she knew there were few options left to her. “Then you take hold of my talisman, Misha. I won’t even touch it. You pull the memory.” She held her own arms out wide.

Misha shook his head. “If you’re as innocent as you claim, come with me to see Jai-Nimh. Make whatever peace you can with him.”

Sensing now that it was almost totally futile, Jenevra lowered her arms. “I can’t allow my talisman anywhere near him, Misha. He already has Dai-Nimh’s. Soon he’ll have yours. I can’t let him take this one too.” Taking a step closer to Misha, she reached up gently, touching his cheek with her fingers. She tried one last time, still not understanding the bizarre changes that seemed to have overtaken Misha since she had left the Island. “Come on, Misha. You know how hard Jai-Nimh tried to get me thrown out of the Order. Why would you trust him now? You know me better than that. Misha, please come with me, before he kills you too. Leave with me now. Trust me!”

She thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. He slapped her hand away, bringing his own across to back-fist her across the face, knocking her to her knees. “He told me you’d try that. But you deserted me, Jenna; you betrayed our bond. You could have asked the Emperor to override my marriage to Artela. He’s your cousin; he’d do anything for you. But you wouldn’t. You don’t care about me. You never did. It was all an act: a way to get through your training with my help. I should never have trusted you.”

Turning his back on her, Misha opened the tent and called quietly to the sentries. She was gone before they could respond, striding directly through the camp. Most of the men were asleep; but there was as much danger now in taking her time with stealth as there would be in just getting out of the camp as quickly as possible. Her progress was uneventful until she reached the final ring of sentries around the camp. A tough looking soldier, fairly young, challenged her. “No-one leaves the camp,” he growled.

Jenevra took several steps closer to him, until she was standing in enough light for him to recognize that she wasn’t a soldier—or at least not one like he’d ever seen. She gave him a glance of pure invitation, sliding her hands up onto his chest.

Lust overcoming all his reason as he glimpsed the promise of the body underneath the torn silk shirt, the soldier followed her into the shadow of the hillside. It was the last poor decision he would ever make.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

The moons were sinking when she finally slithered back down the slope to the Flight’s camp, sliding down the last few stony feet of the hillside to where Spider and Bran were waiting with her swords and jacket. Washing most of the guard’s blood off in the small stream, she tried to ignore their questioning glances. “Where are Brogan and Ki-Nimh?” she asked.

“Commander Rabenaldt arrived and sent for them—and you.” Spider told her. “That’s not yours is it?” He nodded at the blood she was rinsing off.

“Just some idiot guard. How long ago did they leave?” She caught Spider’s look of concern and gave him a rueful grin. “Honestly, you’re all turning into Brogan and Bernardo on me.” Disappearing once more into the trees, dragging her jacket over her shirt to hide the rips, pulling hair from her braid loose around her face, she set off to report to the men gathered with Raik.

“Well?” Raik demanded as she sank onto the ground next to Ki-Nimh, in the low light provided by the fire pit, hair falling thickly around her.

“Misha’s there.” Her face was pale, but she showed nothing as she said it.

“What?” Brogan looked totally perplexed.

“He’s with them: and Prince Cieren too. Looks like Misha and Cieren came up together from Abalos-Colles to meet Jai-Nimh. Jai-Nimh told him that Ki-Nimh and I are responsible for what happened at the Island; and Misha, apparently, believes Jai-Nimh rather than me.” There was an angry undertone to her voice.

“Right, so what else did you find out?” Commander Rabenaldt rubbed a weary hand over his face.

Jenevra filled them in on the details of the camp; estimated number of soldiers and their likely experience; and most of the conversational details of her encounter with Misha, but left out the physical elements, knowing the reactions she would have to face. “You’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would,” she noted as Raik sat quietly.

“Being around you is like swimming in freezing water, Jenn. After a while, you just get numb. So, what else?”

She shrugged, tugging at a lock of hair across her face; twisting the long chestnut strands around her finger absently. “Nothing really. I suppose the only way to challenge them is that they have an army on Empire territory?”

Raik nodded, doubtfully. “The Emperor won’t like it. We can’t afford to have wars with two of our client Kings at the same time, and Aleksander and Corros hold the two largest territories.”

“Aleksander may not know what’s going on,” Baran Wargentin offered his opinion. Jenevra had been pleased to see this older brother of Conall arrive with his own personal guard, along with her brother, Stephan (who had torn himself away from Princess Allegra). Of a similarly huge build to Stephan, Baran had a reputation as a strong warrior, and seemed willing to accept Jenevra’s role far more readily than most.

“You think Mikhail’s acting independently?” Mikyle Manvi asked. “Maybe even against his father’s orders?”

“Could be,” Baran said. “Aleksander may have some issues, but he’s totally committed to the Empire. He made that very clear when we were at the wedding: even argued with Corros about it.”

“So Corros was speaking out against the Empire?” Raik queried. “Interesting.”

“Not the Empire exactly so much as the Couressimes,” Baran clarified. “Whatever his reasons, it seems to be a personal thing.”

“Look, couldn’t Ki-Nimh and I just go?” Jenevra asked. “The two of us can challenge the two of them? Just keep it within the Order so there’s no need to involve the political side of it.”

“There’s no way they would agree to that. It’s too even. All they have to do for now is sit there until we make a move. Then they can legitimately blame us for starting it.” Blaise Tessier spoke for the first time. He’d been listening quietly to everything, rubbing the deep bruise on his face where Jenevra had punched him. She had very obviously been trying to avoid looking at him, until now.

“How d’you work that out? They’re the ones sitting in Maressia with an army. At least we should try it. It’s the talismans he’s after anyway, and there has to be a reason why he’s left Misha with his so far.” Jenevra didn’t see any point in telling them that Jai-Nimh’s quest for the talismans was his path to her: she would deal with that issue when it was necessary. “And Phillip will find a way to work with whatever we do.”

“That’s true,” Raik conceded, rising to his feet. “Maybe we should just tell them to pack up and go home then.”

“Now you’re talking. Let’s go then!” Jenevra bounced up and away from the fire.

“Nimh’a!” Ki-Nimh’s voice cracked loudly, halting her in her tracks.

The men around the fire grinned as they heard a muffled curse from the princess.

Head down, she stood waiting reluctantly for her mentor to catch up.

Ki-Nimh stalked across to her, obviously deeply angry about something.

Sensing something afoot, the other men strained their ears trying to listen to the hushed argument taking place underneath the dark eaves of the small forest. Frustratingly, all they could hear were the two voices muttering indistinctly.

“Misha wouldn’t even listen to me!” Jenevra said plaintively. “I even offered him the chance to use my talisman to see the truth for himself … but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t trust me.” Her voice choked. “How could he not trust me, Ki-Nimh?”

“What are you hiding?” Ki-Nimh folded his arms, gazing sternly at her.

“What? Nothing.” She mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

“Really? This is how you usually wear your hair is it?” He reached out and pushed a heavy fall back over her shoulder, showing him livid bruise marks already appearing along her neck and on her cheek. “How did this happen?” Ki-Nimh’s face darkened. “Not Misha?”

Recollection flooded her face, giving him the answer. “He didn’t mean—”

“What’s going on, Kian?” Raik strode up, determined to see what the intense discussion was about. “Anything we need to know before tomorrow?”

“No!” Jenevra’s eyes pleaded with Ki-Nimh.

“Yes, I think so, Commander. But I also think this would be better discussed in the light, so we can see what we’re dealing with.” Kian took a firm hold on Jenevra’s arm.

With Raik glowering at her Jenevra didn’t feel that fighting them both would be a good idea. But she did balk at the sight of the others still standing around by the fire. “Oh no, not them too,” she groaned, pink with embarrassment.

Slightly sensitive to her discomfort, Raik dismissed everyone except Brogan and they took their discussion inside Raik’s tent. The second version Jenevra told them of the evening’s events was much closer to the truth, although still not entirely comprehensive as she kept Misha’s accusations of the relationship between Ki-Nimh and her unreported. Exactly as she had anticipated, the three men erupted in rage.

“I’ll kill him myself!” Raik swore as he pushed her hair back to check the bruising on her neck. “Where’s this blood from, Jenn?” He pulled the high collar of her jacket to one side, the lamplight revealing the gash Misha’s knife had made.

“That’s the second time he’s hurt you like that, Captain,” Brogan growled.

“Misha used metal against you?” Ki-Nimh’s normally calm voice raised in such utter outrage it caused Brogan and Raik to halt in surprise. “He broke his Oath? Then he has forfeited his place in the Order.” He gave Jenevra a coldly assessing gaze. “You know that, Nimh’a. Did you bring his talisman back?”

She shook her head, jaw tightly clenched, lowering her eyes to the ground. She knew exactly what she should have done, according to the Order’s rules.

“He used metal against you, and you left him with his head, with Jai-Nimh, and with both talismans?” Ki-Nimh slammed his hands on the table, absolutely furious. “Nimh’a, you know your duty. And you even offered up your own talisman?”

“But he didn’t take it, Ki-Nimh. He could have done. He could have killed me, but he didn’t. He could have handed me over to Jai-Nimh, but he didn’t. That has to count for something. Even Dai-Nimh would have said so.” Jenevra’s whole being was pleading with her mentor for understanding. “By the time it happened, I had to get out of there before he called the whole camp up. And Misha broke his Oath a long time ago, Ki-Nimh; when he challenged me on the night I was invested. You didn’t object then!”

“I chose to sanction that, Nimh’a. Although the challenge was not something I approved of, it still gave you a chance to prove yourself as Protector. I hope you’re not feeling so sentimental tomorrow, Nimh’a—or so protective of Misha.” Ki-Nimh responded coldly. “He’s outcast now. We have to take that talisman back, whoever has it. And if he won’t give it up willingly …”

“Assuming none of us gets to him first.” Brogan observed, still angry. “You should have let us deal with him last time. I thought you said you were armed?”

“I was.”

“So why did you let him—”

“It’s called trust, Sergeant,” she flared. “Not that I actually expect any of you to understand that, but I trusted him. I expected him to keep to the same ideals I have. I won’t make that mistake again!” Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, Jenevra stormed off, heading back towards her own Flight.

In the misty quiet of early morning, with the Flight in place on the far left flank of the Imperial force, Jenevra cantered back along the line towards the group of Imperial Commander, Princes and officers.

Jai-Nimh, Prince Cieren of Diruthia and Prince Mikhail of Abalos-Colles were arrayed at the front of their troops, with a small contingent of officers, waiting for some sign from the Imperial side.

At Raik’s signal, a herald rode forward under a flag of truce, declaiming the Emperor’s wish for a peaceful resolution in a voice that could be heard by both sides. He called on the Commanders to approach to discuss terms.

Jenevra hung back just slightly, allowing Raik and Richard move ahead. Captain Tessier pulled his mount in beside her, noting her collar was unusually high and fastened, and the bruise on her face. Knowing that this was somehow linked to the raised voices in Raik’s tent the night before, Tessier decided, wisely, not to raise the issue with the princess. “Aren’t you even going to apologize for hitting me?” he asked.

“No,” she replied tersely, busily winding some red cords around her wrists, using her teeth to finish tying them off. “You deserved it.”

“Of course I did,” he said cheerfully. “But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t feel just a little bit sorry for hurting me does it?”

Without thinking she turned to snap at him, but that was it: he only had to wiggle his eyebrows at her to start a reluctant smile crossing her face. “Oh, dammit, Tessier,” she muttered. “Can’t you just leave me alone and go play with your Flight?”

“When I have you here, princess? Don’t be silly. You’re far more fun … even when you don’t play nicely.” He rubbed at his jaw again, mouth twitching in mirth as he watched her trying to contain her annoyance. “Especially when you don’t play nicely!”

Baran Wargentin rode alongside them, his long blond hair waving behind him in the light breeze that was lifting the last of the low mist. “My dear princess, I think you may have met your match. I told Conall he wouldn’t be able to handle you, but I think Tessier here just might.”

“Thank you for that observation, Your Highness,” Jenevra replied, frostily. “Although I’m sure your brother and I could have worked something out. He is, apparently, the brains of the family.” She kicked her horse forward to join her brother and the Imperial High Commander as they drew near Jai-Nimh.

“Ouch,” Baran grinned as Captain Tessier laughed out loud.

It was quickly apparent that the Diruthian forces were not going to leave; Prince Cieren insisting that they were doing nothing wrong, merely meeting with his new brother-in-law Prince Mikhail for discussion and a little hunting. Most of the men noticed how his gaze kept sliding onto the princess, whose own focus was raking across the Diruthian ranks, looking for pattern or clues to their formations. Misha kept his eyes on Jai-Nimh, refusing to acknowledge Jenevra or Ki-Nimh.

“You are on neither Abaleine nor Diruthian ground. You have one hour,” Raik said finally. “If your troops are not leaving at that time, I will have to consider it a declaration of hostile intent. At that point we will attack.”

“Well you wait your hour, Commander,” Cieren spat, dismissively. “But I will go nowhere at the behest of a lesser man. We will meet you.” He swung his horse around and headed back towards the Diruthian lines.

Jai-Nimh looked at them all, a harmless looking elderly man with mild eyes and a gentle smile. “Ah, the headstrong inexperience of youth,” he said softly. “Still, he is a prince, and not to be gainsaid. One hour then. Ki-Nimh, Nimh’a,” he inclined his head towards his former colleagues.

“Jaiyen,” Ki-Nimh greeted him, without the honorific Nimh; the title he had given up all right to through his actions on the Island. “Mikhail.” He let the prince know that he too had given up his right to be considered part of the Order.

Misha met Ki-Nimh’s accusing gaze. “Let’s leave, Jai-Nimh. I don’t see the point in spending time debating with traitors and murderers.”

Only Tessier’s quick action in pulling his horse in front of Jenevra’s stopped her heading straight for Misha at that. Facing her, his hand clamped down hard on her arm even as she reached for a knife. “He’s not worth it, princess. Let it go.” There wasn’t even a hint of his usual mockery on his face.

“Ah, the leering Captain,” Misha sneered. “I might have known. Well, you’re not the first man she’s thrown her honor to; but I expect you already know that.”

“Make your peace with whatever gods you think will still listen to you Mikhail because you’ll be meeting them today.” Jenevra’s eyes were blazing, but her voice was controlled. “No-one makes that accusation and lives.”



“That was deliberate, wasn’t it?” Raik asked Kian quietly as they rode back to their own lines.

“Mikhail’s allegation against Jenna? Oh, yes, totally deliberate. He knows she’ll go after him now … as if last night didn’t seal it!” Kian looked grim.

“Did Jenn see it for what it was, do you think?”

Kian shook his head. “I’m not sure. Last night she was still prepared to defend him, you saw that for yourself; but I noticed she’s put red bands on her wrists this morning.” At Raik’s questioning glance he clarified, “Essentially it means she’s committed to a death and if it doesn’t happen she’ll take her own life. Misha publicly accused her of the three worst crimes you can commit in the Order. She’ll be seriously after his blood now: all three merit execution. One way or another, one of them will be dead by the end of the week … and I’ve never seen the Nimh’a fail yet.” He looked at Raik, a troubled expression entering his steel-gray eyes. “It’s what killing him will do to her that really worries me.”

The next hour was spent reforming battle plans and ensuring they were communicated to all line officers. The senior Captains and Commanders remained in a tight group in the center. Jenevra’s mission with the Flight was simple; to hold the left flank and, if at all possible, retrieve the talisman. If it was still around Misha’s neck, then they would need to bring the prince out too.

Blaise Tessier was on his fifth “What if …” when Raik ran out of patience. “Captain Tessier, you can stand there till darkness falls asking me the same thing over and over again, but rest assured that nothing … I repeat, nothing that you say will convince me to pull Captain Couressime off the line. She knows who we’re up against. She knows how to fight. She knows what she’s doing. And if, if anything should happen, it will be my head the Emperor will be after—not to mention his mother! If I can cope with that, then so can you! Do I make myself clear?”

Tessier shut his mouth; glaring balefully at Jenevra, who was watching him with one eye while whispering something into Mikyle Manvi’s ear that made him blush.

The battle, such as it was, was short, sharp and decisive. The Imperial troops washed over the combined forces of Diruthia and Abalos-Colles like waves over sand. Princes Cieren and Mikhail, to Jenevra’s intense fury, remained at the back of their troops, not involving themselves in the combat; preferring to leave the dying to others. From her horse she could see Misha watching her, and pushed forward to make her way across the battlefield towards him, swords swinging easily in her hands, cutting down those who stood between her and her target as easily as lopping heads off dead roses. Her anger became almost incandescent as Blaise Tessier pulled across in front of her. “What’re you doing?” She screamed at him furiously. “Get out of my way! I have to get that talisman.”

“Stay with your Flight, Captain!” Tessier bellowed, trying to keep his horse from wheeling around. “Your position is over here, protecting this flank. You stay there!” He shot her an equally angry look. “I don’t have time to babysit. This is a battlefield, princess; not your own personal playground. If you want to be in an army, you’d better start acting like it!”

Rejoining the Flight, although irate, she noted that most were doing well. Solid training had given all of them enough skills to at least go up against this half trained bunch of recent conscripts on this side of the Diruthian force. Finn Corrigan and one of the newer men, Danya, were keeping most of the Flight covered from the edge of the fighting; arrows picking off several attacking soldiers just before they could attack behind Shadow Flight men. Simon was cutting a wide track through the opposition with his sword; Spider and D’Agostino on either side of him.

Captain Manvi’s men were having a tougher time against the regulars of the Diruthian army, but the greater numbers of Imperial troops were paying off. Before long, Cieren was calling the Diruthian host into retreat. As they slowly pulled back across the valley, another fight became apparent. On the far right of the field Ki-Nimh was locked in combat with Jai-Nimh; a space open around them as they dueled one on one.

Ordering the Flight to return to their original places on the hillside, Jenevra moved a little way up along the field, heading towards her mentor: turning back frustrated at the sight of Captain Tessier gesticulating angrily at her. Returning a most unladylike gesture at him, she cantered back to the Flight, muttering under her breath and looking to see that everyone was safe. With the exception of a few minor cuts and grazes, most of the Flight was untouched, much to her relief. But, as she looked around, she realized that several faces were missing. “Where’re the twins? Bernardo?” She slipped down off her horse, striding over to Finn and Danya. “Did you see where they went from up here?”

“Logan was hurt,” Finn supplied. “Pretty badly from what I could see. Bernardo and Gavin took him to the healer’s tent.”

“Is everyone else alright?” she asked the Flight in general. Most of them were leaning over their swords, or flopped down on the ground; a few looked excited, their adrenalin still rushing. “Get back to camp together. Clean the weapons and yourselves before you do anything else. Any wounds need to be taken care of properly. Baudoin, you’re in charge until Brogan gets back. Sergeant Brogan, you’re with me.” She paused next to her horse and turned back to them all, a satisfied smile beginning to break through. “Nice work out there, gentlemen. Our first outing and only one hurt. I think that deserves a celebration tonight. At least they won’t be able to dismiss this Flight anymore!” Swinging up onto her horse again, she cantered towards the center of the camp with Brogan riding beside her.

Pausing briefly at her tent to wash off the worst of the blood and gore she’d accumulated during the battle, the princess left her swords and headed to the Healer’s tent.

The healers were busy, but not with too many serious or fatal cases that she could see. Jenevra moved quietly through them, spotting Bernardo’s tall form with short, bushy, dark hair kneeling next to Gavin Logansson. Gavin’s blond twin was lying on a thin pallet, fresh blood soaking rapidly through a large dressing over his lower gut, but attempting to rise when he caught sight of his Captain approaching.

“Don’t be silly,” she pushed him gently back down. “Just lie still and let the healers do their job.” She brushed his hair back away from his face and lifted one of his hands into her own. Logan closed his eyes, a slight smile on his pale lips. Looking across, she gazed into Gavin Logansson’s dark eyes, filled with grief for his brother. He was holding tightly onto Logan’s other hand, oblivious to the occasional tear sliding down his face. She looked up at Bernardo, who shook his head sadly. Leaning over the semi-conscious Logan she told him to rest, rose, and moved swiftly through the tent. Accosting one of the healers, she discussed Logan’s condition with him and requested something from him. Although he was a little surprised by the knowledge the request implied, he went off quickly to prepare it.

As she sat on the edge of a table waiting, Captain Tessier wandered in, holding onto his shoulder. A small, broken shaft of arrow was sticking out. Catching the eye of one of the healers, he was told to wait until one of them was free. His wound didn’t look too severe.

“I could do that for you, you know?”

“You? I don’t think so, Princess.” He sounded amused, but his eyes were shadowed with pain.

Jenevra dragged him towards the table she’d been sitting on. “Sit,” she ordered. Gathering a large bowl of steaming water into which she plunged a handful of fragrant deep green leaves; adding some bandages and a small cup of a bitter herb drink for the pain, she turned back to him, holding out a steaming cloth. “Here, you can wipe some of that blood off your face. Oh, for Tore’s sake, Captain, couldn’t you even take your jacket off to make this easier?” Rolling her eyes in exasperation, she pulled a small sharp knife from the sash around her waist and began cutting his jacket and shirt away from the arrow as he swallowed the contents of the cup and began dabbing unenthusiastically at his face. “Look, that wasn’t difficult was it? Just take them off so I can see what I’m doing.” She started pulling the material from round the arrow, so that he could slide the shirt and jacket down off his shoulder and arm.

Turning away, she dropped the little knife into the bowl of steaming water. Soaking a fresh cloth, she turned back ready to clean the area around the arrow, strangely startled by the fact that Captain Tessier was now sitting in front of her bare-chested, grinning slyly. Avoiding looking him in the eyes, she focused on the arrow, ignoring his complaint that the cloth was hot. Moving closer to get a good look at the arrow, she felt his breath on her neck. On eye level with his shoulder, she started as his other arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer to him. “Just trying to keep my balance,” he murmured innocently.

Trying hard not to notice his hair brushing against her cheek, or the fact that his skin was tanned and taut, Jenevra probed gently around the arrow head. “Sorry,” she apologized as he winced. “I need to see if there’s a barb on it.”

“Really?” Even after the herb drink his teeth were gritted against the pain. “I thought you were just getting even.”

Jenevra glanced up, puzzled. “Even? For what? Will you just sit still a minute?”

Tessier took a deep breath as she began digging with the knife, trying to loosen the tip of the arrow head. “For telling you to get back … out on the field. Ow!”

“Oh that,” she smiled a little. “I’d forgotten.” She peered closer at the arrow and dug a little more. “Here we are.” She pulled the arrow head out, a long thin design with a series of small barbs on the tip designed to pull tissue and tendon as it was removed rather than as it entered. “Looks like you’ll live to fight another day, Captain. Here hold this over it a minute.” She handed him a wad of cloth and pressed his hand hard against his shoulder.

“What’s that?” Warily, Tessier watched her pull a thin needle out of the bowl of water.

“It just needs a couple of stitches.”

“You want to sew it? Not likely.” Captain Tessier made to get off the table, but the princess was directly in front of him, standing between his legs with a wickedly amused expression on her face.

Now, be a big brave Captain; you’ll hardly feel a thing,” she smirked.

“Can’t I get drunk first? Ow! Damn it, that hurts. I suppose you’re enjoying yourself.” He winced, gritting his teeth.

Jenevra was relieved when the healer arrived with a concoction that she’d requested for Logan. Washing her hands off, she took the dish.

“Who’s that for?” Tessier asked.

“Logan,” she answered softly. “There’s nothing they can do for him, so this will just make things easier until he goes.” She reached out unthinkingly and ran one finger through the dark hair running down towards his navel. “You’d better put a shirt on, Captain. And let that healer tie a bandage over your shoulder. Just keep it all clean and dry and you’ll be fine.”

Kneeling behind Logan, Jenevra rested his head in her lap and rubbed a pale green paste across his lips. Murmuring gentle words of encouragement, she watched as Logan licked parched lips, taking the medicine in. Logan’s breathing was becoming erratic now, shallow and fast. Brogan and Bernardo sat silently with them, Gavin still clinging to his brother’s hand.

Tessier pulled his shirt on and wandered down to where the small group was holding their vigil. He contemplated the young woman in front of him, still wondering if he’d ever solve the mystery of her. How could the terrified girl who’d clung to him through her nightmares be the same one he’d seen ready to throw herself across half a battlefield just to attack one man? Then she was here, removing the arrow from his shoulder with at least as much skill as any of the healers in the tent; and now, caring for Logan as if he was her child, stroking his hair and face, holding on to him as he died. Tessier shook his head, catching the somber look Brogan was giving him.

“Tell her Commander Rabenaldt will expect a report when she’s done here,” he advised the Sergeant quietly. “I’ll tell him where she is for now.”

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Raik Rabenaldt was feeling old. It didn’t come upon him very often, but today he was feeling every one of his sixty years. Watching Kian Menzetti, who was only a few years younger than he was, fighting Jai-Nimh, who had to be in his late seventies, made him realize how rusty his own skills had become. He knew the Order had a very different way of life and training, but he also was honest enough to admit that either of them would have killed him with far less effort than they had expended on each other. Maybe it was time to consider retiring and letting someone younger run the show. Pulling his heavy breastplate off he thought that might be a really good idea. He sighed heavily as he remembered that he still had to find Jenevra and tell her that Ki-Nimh was hurt; possibly fatally, although the healer wasn’t prepared to give up hope yet. Calling his steward, Raik sent out word that he was ready for the reports to begin coming in from his Captains.

One by one they arrived. Rafael Massili had no report to make: having watched the entire battle with Raik. He just dropped his bulk into a chair and began drinking. Richard and Stephan Couressime had both fought with Captain Manvi’s troops, holding positions as honorary Lieutenants in that Flight. Both were bruised and scratched, but nothing serious. Captain Manvi was attending to some of his men who had been injured, but arrived just shortly after Captain Tessier.

“Captain Couressime will join us later. She’s staying with one of her men.” Tessier informed them quietly. “She’s fine.” He answered the unspoken questions from her brothers. He looked directly at Raik. “Logan Logansson,” he said simply.

Raik closed his eyes. Such waste. Logan had been in the Border Patrol until the Shadow Flight was formed; he knew both the twins well. “How’s Gavin taking it?”

Tessier shrugged. “About as well as you’d think. She’s staying with him until Logan goes. Brogan and Bernardo are there too; and I think I saw the archer and the blond boy, the good swordsman, going into the tent too.”

“Doesn’t believe in taking the easy way about anything, does she?” Rafael Massili was quietly serious: the princess had impressed him more than he was willing to admit to just yet.

Night was deepening as Logan finally slipped quietly from unconsciousness into death. It took several moments for Gavin to realize that his brother had stopped breathing, and that the Captain had stopped murmuring to Logan. He turned anguished eyes on her, seeing a pain mirrored there, an understanding of what he was feeling. “I’d like to stay with him a while, if that’s alright, Captain?”

Jenevra nodded. “Take as long as you need, Gavin. I’ll tell the healers not to bother you. Do you want us to stay?”

Gavin looked around at the other men: his eyes filling with sudden emotion, he turned back to his brother. “No … thanks. I’d like to be alone with Logan.”

Each of the men laid a hand on Gavin’s shoulder as they filed silently out, leaving him hunched over his dead twin, dark head bowed over the blond one. Kneeling on the opposite side of Logan, Jenevra smoothed his hair back from his forehead one last time, bending forward to lay a light kiss on it. Brogan, Bernardo, Finn and Simon were standing around outside the tent waiting for her. She gave them a tired smile. “Go on back to the Flight. Get some beer out. I know no-one will really be in the mood to celebrate now, but at least you can all have a decent drink.” She sighed wearily. “I’ll go see Commander Rabenaldt. You never know,” she glanced at Bernardo. “I might even be able to sleep tonight.”

As she trudged through the camp towards Raik’s Command tent the talisman’s faint buzzing was beginning to intrude onto her consciousness; a vibration deep within her mind. Irritated, she put it down to the emotion of the day, the let down of adrenalin, and tried to focus away from it. She could hear all the familiar voices inside Raik’s tent as she came along the side of it. The front was open, tied back to allow the cool evening breezes in.

“Jenn!” Stephan jumped up, smothering her as usual in a massive bear hug.

Pushing him off, she nodded at everyone else. “Tessier told you?” she directed the question at Raik, who nodded. “Logan was our only injury,” she continued. “The rest of my Flight is fine. We did not, however, complete our mission to retrieve the talisman. Mikhail is still alive, and out there somewhere with it.” Taking a deep breath, she folded her arms defiantly. “I want permission for my Flight to go after him.”

Everyone, except Raik who’d been expecting it, sat up from their slouched positions, objecting vociferously.

“No.”

“That’s it … no?”

“Correct. But before you argue, you might want to see how your mentor is doing. I was planning on sending you to take him home to Mirizir.”

“Ki-Nimh’s hurt?” Her manner changed instantly; another thread pulling out of the fabric of her life. “Where is he?”

“Second tent down.” Raik watched her disappear, hoping she would find Kian still alive. At least they’d be able to say good-bye.

Wynn, senior of the Healers traveling with Raik’s Patrol, was leaving Ki-Nimh’s tent as she reached it: he’d done all he could for the man inside and needed to return to supervise the main healers’ tent. He knew the princess from many years of bumps and scrapes in the Palace, and nodded a welcoming smile as she entered the darkened interior. The remaining healer stood, signaling her to quiet as she entered the tent. Moving noiselessly across to the low bed, she knelt by the side of the man who had guided her for five years. “Ki-Nimh?” She whispered; a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The lean form on the bed remained still and silent, hands resting at his sides. The stern face seemed more relaxed and peaceful than she had ever seen it before; steel colored hair released from its usual tight braid, falling around his face, making him look younger and, somehow, vulnerable.

“He has a deep wound,” the healer explained. “It came close to his heart. Also another that caused a massive loss of blood. We’ve managed to halt the bleeding now; the wounds are closed and will heal in time. If he doesn’t get a fever on top of this, then maybe he has a chance … if he’s strong enough. I’m sorry I cannot be more hopeful.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jenevra stated with a quiet confidence that she wasn’t sure she truly felt. “He’s strong. You don’t know what he’s been through before this, and he’s still here.” Taking Ki-Nimh’s hand in her own on a sudden impulse, she placed it on the talisman that still hung around her neck. “I’m not losing you too,” she muttered, closing her eyes and reaching out for Ki-Nimh in her mind. The white mists were still there, but thicker, more tangible; holding her like wading through treacle; blocking the pathway from clear view. She had a strong sense of someone else there with her, someone searching for her, trying to reach her. Dragging deep inside of herself, she pushed every ounce of strength and energy she could feel into the hand she was holding; sensing a warmth building up in her arm. Dimly she heard the healer’s muffled gasp before the buzzing sound began to impose its awareness again; pulling her back through the mists into the dimly lit tent. Nauseous, and gasping as if she had run forever, she looked at Ki-Nimh’s face, relieved to see it had a little more color, and his breathing seemed a little stronger.

“How … how did you do that, Your Highness?” the healer stuttered. “It looked as though light was running down your arm into him. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Still trying to catch her breath, Jenevra shook her head. “I have no idea. I’m just glad it seems to have done something. When can he travel to Mirizir? He can get well there.”

The healer felt his patient’s pulse. Pursing his lips, he nodded slowly. “His pulse is stronger now; I think he may just do it, Your Highness. Give him a couple of days here to gain some strength and then he should be strong enough to travel.”

She slumped exhausted on the floor at his side, her head resting on her elbow on the side of the bed. She watched him for over an hour, the deep vibration humming within her erasing her concept of time. Resigned to the fact that he wasn’t coming round any time soon, she stood and stretched. Lifting Ki-Nimh’s Master’s sword tentatively from its customary place on a stand in the corner, holding it close to her, she bowed deeply to her unconscious mentor and left.

Making her way back to Raik’s tent, where the men were already indulging in some serious drinking by the sound of things, she saw Baran Wargentin enter ahead of her and heard his voice. “Where’s Jenevra?” Baran’s voice was almost as loud as Rafael Massili’s when he was excited. Jenevra wasn’t close enough to hear the other voices in the tent, but Baran’s voice boomed out loud and clear. “Well, we had to make sure there were no stragglers—make sure we knew where they all were. Can’t have them sneaking back in the night, can we? Anyway, where’s the princess?”

More mutterings from another voice that she couldn’t place.

“Yes, Tessier, I am well aware that I’m married. Jenevra and I … well, let’s just say we have an understanding …”

Unwilling to prolong the suspense any further, but ready to play along, Jenevra appeared around the corner of the tent. “Hello, Baran. You sound like you’ve been having fun.” Although her expression was calm, Baran had caught the gleam in her eyes.

“My dear Princess,” he held his arm out to her. “Care to join me for a stroll?”

“Why, Your Highness, that would be delightful,” she smiled blithely at him: the dark look being thrown at them by Captain Tessier merely sweetening the moment. “Commander,” she turned to Raik. “You win. The healer says Ki-Nimh will be able to travel in a couple of days. I’ll go with him to Mirizir.” Swinging Ki-Nimh’s sword over her left shoulder, she gave her right arm to Baran, and they wandered off through the camp together, to the amazement and disgust of various members of the party in Raik’s tent.

“How does she manage to make obeying a direct order sound like she’s doing me a favor?” Raik asked the tent in general, not really expecting an answer.

When they were out of direct line of sight, Jenevra removed her arm and turned to Baran, poking a sharp finger into his ribs. “So, what’s this all about? We have an understanding? Really? I thought my brothers were going to choke.”

“I was just trying to see if I could get Tessier to lose his grip,” Baran grinned widely. “But I have news for you, and I didn’t want anyone else to hear it.” He glanced at her, pleased to see he’d piqued her interest. “I know where Mikhail Dhorani is.”

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Well, that’s interesting; but why’d you think I would care where he is?”

Baran’s massive hand picked up one of hers. Tapping a finger at the red cord still bound around her wrist, suddenly deadly serious, he said, “I know what these are for, sweetheart. And in this case, I think I also know who they’re for.”

Jenevra didn’t drop her gaze, meeting Baran’s clear blue eyes with her own. “That is a very unusual piece of information for you to have,” she noted quietly. “How do you know about the cords?”

Baran shrugged huge shoulders. “I met a man—years ago now. It was an inn down in Nixehafen as I recall. I helped him out and he explained the significance of the oath that goes with them to me.” His voice dropped as he added, “I’d rather not see you have to take your own life, and I reckon you have a decent chance in a fair fight against Dhorani. I just went on a little information gathering exercise on your behalf. How long do you have?”

“Oh, a couple of days,” she said, vaguely. “Where was he?”

Baran explained, attributing the princess’s vague expression to concentration; not knowing that the talisman was buzzing in her head again like an angry swarm of hornets.

“What will you do?” Baran’s question pushed through the noise.

“Take Ki-Nimh home, then go after them.”

“Them? I thought it was just Dhorani?”

“It was. I don’t know if Ki-Nimh injured Jai-Nimh, but Misha and Jai-Nimh both have to die. If Ki-Nimh can’t do it, I’m the only one left who can.” Chilled by realization that this was in fact true; apart from two very elderly Masters, she was the only member of their Order left if Ki-Nimh died; Jenevra fell silent, her eyes distant.

“Just promise me you won’t go after them alone.” Baran raked his long hair back from his face, blue eyes reflecting silver in the light from a nearby fire. “You can always call me up. I’ll go anywhere for a good fight, and Conall would never forgive me if I let you get hurt.” Baran squeezed her shoulder gently.

“I’d better get back to my Flight,” Jenevra noted. “Thanks, Baran. I owe you.”

“Maybe you can come back down to Lorthia some time and show us how to climb that mountain that you and Baudoin were so keen on?” The fact that she hadn’t promised him anything didn’t escape the Lorthian Crown Prince; a frown creasing his forehead as he thought about the information he’d shared with her.

“Baran?” Jenevra turned around, a sudden thought occurring to her as she walked into the darkness. “That man you met in Nixehafen … you were his target, weren’t you?”

She just caught a gleam of white teeth, as he disappeared with a deep chuckle.

After checking with Brogan how the Flight was doing, Jenevra wandered slowly back to her own small tent, deep in thought. Placing Ki-Nimh’s sword reverently on the table, on top of a large piece of white silk from her pack, she sat in the chair. Legs stretched out in front of her, the princess stared at the long blade, into its polished surface reflecting her own image, as the sounds sawing through her consciousness began to drown out everything else.

Pulling off her boots and the tight dark jacket and shirt she’d worn all day, Jenevra dipped into her supplies again, retrieving a neatly folded, heavy silk jacket that she wrapped around her. Tying the jacket tightly, she overlaid it with an elaborately embroidered sash; picking up Ki-Nimh’s sword and wrapping another of the red cords around the long hilt, before slinging it over her back on its slender strap.

It was sometime after midnight as closely as she could reckon it from the moons’ positions in the cloudy sky. The weather was changing; the wind picking up in a strong onshore breeze. The slight yellowish tinge around the edges of the scudding clouds gave her the certainty of a storm on its way in. The majority of tents were tightly tied shut and double pegged to stop the wind from taking them, making it all the easier for Jenevra to leave without drawing attention: slipping out of the back of her tent like one of the shadows her Flight was named for, and making her way to where the Flight’s horses were picketed on the far edge of the camp. Had she been a little less distracted by the deep resonance pulsing inside her that was now intensifying into a strong pull towards the coast, she might have noticed the Flight’s other insomniac, Finn Corrigan’s green eyes watching her from where the Flight was camped. She would have seen him wake Spider Baudoin quietly, and seen the pair of them begin to follow her.

Letting the feeling of the talisman guide her, Jenevra cantered easily back towards the coast; the buzzing resolving itself into an low whistling rhythm now, centered on the top of her chest, where the cold stone of the talisman lay. The closer she rode to the shore, the more intense the feeling became, pushing all other awareness aside, until it was coursing through her completely by the time she rode out onto the shore, wind howling around her.

The beach lay, long and narrow, in front of her, golden sand leached silver in the moonlight, alternating shadowed and clear as ragged clouds ripped across the faces of the moons. Black waves crashed heavily along the beach; white foam thrown high into the air as the wind whipped it up. The booming waters drew her attention to the cliffs rearing up from the northern end of the sand; high, perilous crags looming out of the sea in constant battle with the pounding surf. Sliding from her horse, bare feet sinking into the cold sand; a flicker of memory pulled at her from that day, seemingly long ago, when she and Misha had fled to the beach in mutual despair. It seemed almost impossible that it had been less than four weeks ago when she considered all that had happened since then. The wind whipped stingingly around her, almost unnoticed as she walked out towards the edge of the ocean; tugging at the heavy jacket, billowing the loose sleeves.

The talisman’s song was becoming clearer now, distilling its harmonics into a chord of two notes, as she noticed the familiar figure striding out from the opposite end of the sands. She stood, silent and still until Misha came to a halt about ten feet away from her, auburn curls tied loosely back, an identical jacket being pulled about by the rising gale.

Gazing steadily at each other, they both knelt in the sand, sitting back on their heels as they contemplated what was to come; aware that there was no retreat: one of them would not leave this place. Misha lifted his twin swords from his back, placing them in front of him. Jenevra laid Ki-Nimh’s sword across her knees, hands resting lightly on the scabbard.

Back in the shelter of the pine trees, Finn and Spider were watching, discussing in harsh whispers what they should do.

“Absolutely nothing,” Baran Wargentin’s deep voice came from behind them, as he emerged from the shadows with Captain Tessier. “Your Captain has to go through with this. You cannot interfere.” He folded his hugely muscled arms across his chest, his expression somber. “We can only be here for her when it’s over.”

“Your Highness, Captain,” Spider was respectful, but puzzled. “How did you know?”

A grim smile appeared on Baran’s face. “How did you?”

Finn’s green eyes gleamed. “It’s what she does,” he noted, sparingly.

Sharing a coldly amused glance with them, Baran agreed. “Exactly. When I told her that Mikhail Dhorani was still in the area I knew there was no way she’d let that go. Not with the red cords around her wrists. She can’t let him leave without resolution.”

“I still don’t see why we can’t just go out there and take care of this,” Tessier grumbled moodily, his hair tangling around his face in the gale. “She’s a bloody nuisance. I don’t see why we all have to freeze out here when we could just go finish it.”

“I’ve told you, she has to do this. If anyone else does it, her oath is broken and she has to take her own life. I know you’d fight him … we all would; but you can’t, so just shut up about it.” Baran moved forward to the farthest edge of the darkness of the forest, pointedly ignoring Tessier’s angry mutterings next to him. Finn and Spider took their places next to them; four pairs of anxious eyes trained on the kneeling couple on the beach.

At some signal the watching men could neither see nor hear Jenevra and Misha rose to their feet. Slowly, they began to remove their heavy silk jackets, pulling them out of the sashes that bound them. As Misha laid his on the ground, facing her bare-chested in the storm, Tessier drew a disbelieving breath. “Gods, she wouldn’t!” Groaning softly, he watched her take her jacket off, bare shoulders and back visible; exhaling in relief as she turned round revealing a strip of some sort of material tied around her chest. Raising their weapons they took a formal position facing each other, swords poised for attack. As the first peal of thunder rumbled around the bay, the duel began.

Jenevra and Misha were both perfectly oblivious to everything else around them; the talismans whistling notes inside their heads. There was no storm, no weather, no sand, no surf pounding. The only reality was the metal in their hands, responding to every movement with notes only they could hear, creating a bizarre song forming deep in their very cores. As the swords clashed and swung, the symphony emerging within them was unlike anything ever heard, building in crescendos with each attack like the waves pounding the shoreline a few feet away.

Tessier, Finn, Spider and Baran could hear nothing other than the faint ringing clash of metal on metal, almost completely overwhelmed by the sounds of the sea and the storm.

The two figures on the beach were moving fluidly with no obvious advantage going to either. With no apparent change in the pace of the fight, Jenevra and Misha circled, clashed, thrust, span apart continuously; Jenevra meeting Misha’s twin swords with the one Master’s sword that she held. Angry thunder growled again and again, as the wind turned colder and a heavy, pelting rain began. Lightning began to dance around the skies in broad sheets, illuminating Jenevra and Misha momentarily in a surreal landscape: temporarily blinding the watching men; leaving them in darkness, uncertain of what was occurring on the beach.

Minute after endless minute passed; ten minutes, then twenty.

Misha hadn’t fought in the battle earlier, and it was starting to make a difference. Having given a huge amount of energy to Ki-Nimh through the talisman, Jenevra was starting to feel the blows he was raining on her sword and, just once, was fractionally too slow in getting her sword where it needed to be. Misha opened up a long slit in the skin over her ribs, causing her to gasp in surprise. An expression of harsh triumph came into his eyes as he redoubled his efforts, sure now of his victory; and she realized that she would have to think hard and fast if she was going to walk away alive. This time Misha was truly trying to kill her. Sinking her mind deep into her training she found that all that would come into her mind was a chess lesson where Ki-Nimh had explained the need to sacrifice a piece to make a greater gain.

Watching Misha’s eyes and moves carefully she judged her moment, moved her sword high, and gave him the opening he was waiting for. As he thrust, she turned; grasping hold of his hand and pulling his sword further into her. Trapping his sword within her own body she met his eyes as he hesitated, hardly able to believe what he’d just done. Swirling her sword around, she slit his throat deeply. Pushing him away as he collapsed slowly onto the sand, she pulled his sword out of her side and dropped it next to him. With her left hand pressed tightly against one of the burning wounds the sword had made, she looked straight into Misha’s dying eyes and swung her sword one more time, taking his head neatly off with a clean backhanded stroke. A searing pain tore through her so powerfully it took her breath and made her vision darken, as she slumped onto her knees; one hand holding her side, the other supporting her on Ki-Nimh’s sword from falling prone into the sand. Soaked now, gasping through nausea for breath, and icy cold from the driving rain, she dragged herself to sit upright and saw a small troop of mounted men heading towards her from the far end of the beach. Noting Prince Cieren at the head of the group, she knew with deep certainty that if he reached her here, tonight, she was dead.

Gritting her teeth, she bent down and pulled the talisman from what was left of Misha’s neck, pushing it deep into a pocket. Slinging Ki-Nimh’s sword over her shoulder quickly, she took the only route open to her; plunging into the crashing sea; diving under each huge wave until she disappeared from view.

Captain Tessier had been almost uncontrollable since Misha had landed the first cut on Jenevra. It had taken the combined strength of all three of the others to keep him from dashing out to her. As he saw her vanish under the waves, everything seemed to drain from him. “No.” His voice was hoarse and angry as he turned on Baran, Spider and Finn. “If you bastards hadn’t stopped me … gods, we’re dead men when the Emperor hears about this.” He broke off as Spider pushed a hand into his chest.

“No, Captain. She knows what she’s doing.” A small, admiring grin creased Spider’s sharp features, fading slightly as he turned and regarded the storm tossed sea at the base of the cliffs. “If she can get there without getting too badly hurt on those rocks at the bottom.”

“The rocks?” Looking shaken at the unexpected outcome of the night’s events, Baran looked across at the high, jagged cliffs, his eyes widening disbelievingly at Spider. “You’re not serious! She’s already injured: she’ll never make it to the cliffs!”

Dark curls plastered straight against his head by the rain, Spider shook his head. “I’m sure she’ll try for it. It’s her only option.” He pointed at Prince Cieren’s group down on the beach, waiting for her to be washed up on the shore. “Other than heading back towards them.”

“Maybe we should be up there then, you know, in case she needs any help,” Finn suggested over the storm still raging about them.

“You don’t seriously think she’ll get through that?” Tessier shouted, pointing at the roiling sea.

Spider nodded. “She’ll aim for that second cliff,” he said, assessing the rocks. “It’ll just depend on the current.”

Tessier was already on his horse, aiming for the path leading through the trees up to the cliff top, as the others swung up to follow him. By the time they caught up with him, he was hanging over the edge of the second cliff peering down at the waves smashing against the sharp rocks a hundred feet or so below them. “She’ll never make it!” He shouted across to Spider whose eyes were busy raking the sea for any sign of the princess.

Jenevra was thinking more or less the same thing as she was dragged under by another towering wave for what felt like an eternity. She knew the current was pulling her in towards the rocks at the base of the cliffs, so she let it tow her along, saving her energy for gasping for air whenever the waters allowed her head to clear them. Already she had been flung against rocks underneath the water, pounded and bruised till she felt like a rag doll being thrown about. When each wave crushed her against a cold jagged surface, she tried to hold on to it, but so far the strong swell had pulled her away time after time, ripping her hands and feet. Another wave hit her, pushing her down until she felt as though her lungs would burst, then throwing her up with a brutal force, slamming her against the base of the cliff. Realizing she didn’t have much strength left, she clung desperately to the rock face almost sobbing at the reprieve as the waters fell back leaving her there. Frantically, she scrambled higher where the waves couldn’t pull at her, and clung there for some minutes, retching up seawater, anxiously holding on to harness some energy for the climb she knew she had to make. Staring upwards, all she could see was a wall of gleaming black rock, a wall she knew would be slippery and treacherous in the driving rain. Shivering, she began to stretch out for a hand hold, aware that the longer she stayed still, the colder she would get and the more difficult it would be. With a glance at the sea still churning beneath her, she began to climb.

It felt like the longest ascent she had ever made, as fingers cut by the rock and numbed by the cold slipped from their holds again and again: each stretch and pull upwards opening up the cut across her front and the wounds in her side. Time after time she clutched flat to the rock, trying to find the energy to move again; had to force herself to move a little further up the endless face of the cliff. Exhausted from the cold, effort, emotion and blood loss, it was increasingly difficult to concentrate; the tremors that had begun to shake her body were becoming worse. It would be so easy just to stop, to fall backwards into the comforting rest of the sea; just to let it take her. Just as she began to believe that letting go was her only option, her hand grasped a flat surface above her. Praying for a ledge to rest on, she hauled up and onto it with rapidly fading strength; lying beaten, bleeding and gasping for breath in the still torrential rain.

Aware that she couldn’t lie there forever, Jenevra turned her head. As her vision slowly registered figures on the cliff top to her right she forced herself to roll over. Pushing up with battered hands onto her knees she knew she had to get away: breathing fervent thanks to the seven gods as she realized that, somehow, she had made it to the top of the cliffs. Desperately clutching at what shreds of energy she could find, the princess tried to push upright using the sword. Fighting against a wave of sickness, she closed her eyes, opening them again only to focus on several pairs of booted feet coming towards her. Determined not to die on her knees, Jenevra dug down deep inside, rising to her feet with a barely audible scream; hoisting the sword one last time to face Cieren and his men.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Impatient with watching over the edge of the cliff, Captain Tessier had given his spot over to Finn Corrigan. Pacing frantically around the cliff top he was the first to catch sight of a small dark shape on the next cliff. His stomach lurched as he dashed through the rain; the shape was hardly moving. Reaching the princess, he was startled, if rather relieved, to see her stand, raising her sword against him. Relief sweeping through him in a red mist, Captain Tessier glowered angrily at the shivering, sodden girl in front of him. “Put that bloody sword down right now!” He screamed at her over the storm; reaching out and taking the sword from her nerveless fingers. Yanking his cloak off, he wrapped it around her, pulling her close into him by the collar, shouting, “Do you ever think about what you’re doing? You could have been killed! Do you have any idea how angry you make me?” He shook her.

“Tessier!” Baran growled in warning behind him. “Leave it.”

Collecting himself with an obvious effort, Blaise strode off towards the horses, towing the princess after him by the arm, muttering every curse word he’d ever learned. As she stumbled in near collapse, he swung her up into his arms, carrying her easily, feeling her trembling as she leaned against him.

Baran handed her up to Tessier as they mounted. Bending across from his own horse, he grasped Tessier’s arm firmly. “Go gently with her, Blaise, or you’ll be answering to me. It’s a miracle she’s still alive. The best thing we can do is get her to the healers now.”

By the time they reached the camp again, the rain was beginning to slow: it didn’t seem to have been as bad back inland. The early hours of the morning were passed and the sky was beginning to lighten towards the dawn as they rode up to the healers’ tent.

Baran left for his own tent, taking Tessier’s horse with him, handing Ki-Nimh’s sword to Finn and Spider. They took Jenevra’s horse and headed back towards the Flight’s encampment; happier once they had seen their Captain arguing with Captain Tessier; stubbornly insisting on limping into the healers on her own two feet, even though she could barely stand. Looking forward to a couple of hours sleep before everyone else would be up, Spider looked across at Finn. “We’d better go put this sword where she’ll find it. What do you want to bet she’ll still be here for a morning run?”

“No bet,” Finn grinned. “I just hope we can keep up.”

Not expecting any more casualties at this hour, the chief healer, Wynn, had to be awoken by an assistant who was watching over the wounded men still in their care. Jenevra quickly recognized Wynn: the skinny man with jug ears backed by large tufts of white hair and a shining bald pate wasn’t too easy to forget.

“Your Highness?” Dull brown robes swinging about him, Wynn moved forward quickly when he saw who his early arrival was. “Great Pajan! What happened? No, never mind explanations just now … let’s see what we’ve got here.” With quiet, gentle efficiency he looked over the most obvious lacerations and wounds, shaking his head at the condition of the slight form in front of him. Moving her quickly out of the main part of the tent, he took her into the area where they worked on the wounded.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me how you managed to get a sword all the way through your side? Well, it’s a clean enough wound: doesn’t seem to be in the region of anything major, anyway.” Wynn looked directly at Jenevra, still shaking visibly although he had wrapped warm blankets around her as soon as he’d made his first quick assessment of her condition. “Anything I can’t see?”

She shook her head, eyes slightly unfocused. “I don’t know. Maybe a bruise or two, but the rest of it is right where you can see it.”

“Right,” Wynn made a mental list. “Let’s take care of those sword cuts. The one across your front is pretty much knitting on its own already. I don’t want to open it back up, so I think we’ll just leave it to see how it heals. The other two are going to need either stitches or cauterizing. I’m inclined towards the stitches personally, just in case of infection, but they’re in a very easy place to rip open if you aren’t careful.” He gave her a pointed look. “No running around, fighting, training or anything until they’re healed.”

Jenevra pulled a face. “You’d best get on and do it then.”

“Do you want a draught before I do this, Your Highness? For the pain, I mean.”

She frowned at him, puzzled. “Why? It’s only a couple of stitches. Just do it.”

Wynn moved closer to the large brazier he kept burning in the tent, taking a lamp across with him and laying it on a table. His assistant brought a bowl of hot water with leaves in it, just like the one Jenevra had used with Captain Tessier earlier in the day. “If we work over here, Your Highness, it will help to stop you getting cold again. We’re going to have to lose the blanket for a while to do this.” He patted the table. “Lie down there, and we’ll get going.” He glanced at Tessier who was pacing about looking uncomfortable. “If you want to make yourself useful, Captain, you could go bring some dry clothes for her.”

Jenevra rolled her eyes, but made no other objection as Tessier came over to the table, leaning down so his face was by hers and muttering “I will be back. Behave.” Running quickly to her tent, the Captain delved through the small bag of clothing, dragging out the softest things he could find. Thinking ahead of himself, he asked Raik’s steward, to place a small flask of brandy in the princess’s tent.

While Wynn was stitching up the two large gashes in Jenevra’s side, Captain Tessier returned and took a couple of minutes for himself to assess how badly hurt she was. The first cut Misha had made ran almost the entire width of her body, across the lower part of her ribs, but didn’t seem to be too deep. The sword had penetrated her left side, exactly at her waist, a straight line between the front and the back wounds; the healer was right when he said it was an easy area to strain and rip open. Her hands and feet were cut, and there were cuts, scrapes and bruises all over her from being flung against the rocks. Tessier also allowed himself a brief moment to admire the figure lying in front of him still in the tight black trousers he’d commented on earlier; and a wide band of leather tied across her chest. He bent to whisper into her ear, “You’re still having problems with your clothes. These appear to have shrunk somewhat in the sea.”

Jenevra didn’t open her eyes, but a smile flickered. “Does that mean you’re not angry with me anymore?”

“I’m absolutely furious,” he said softly, his moustache tickling her ear. “But I’m saving that conversation for later.”

“Finished, Your Highness,” Wynn announced, wiping his hands off on a towel and reaching for a bandage to wrap around her waist. Asking Captain Tessier to excuse himself, the healer helped Jenevra change into the clean, dry clothes. “Still pushing the pain away, Princess?” he enquired in an admonitory manner. “You know we’ve talked about that.” Pulling her up to stand, he began wrapping the bandage round her.

“Ki-Nimh thinks it’s a problem too.” Jenevra was vague; dismissive.

“He’s right,” Wynn nodded sagely. “An abnormally high tolerance for pain like yours can potentially be a bad thing, although those of us without it often believe otherwise.” He picked the blanket up again from by the brazier and wrapped it around the princess. “Rest is what you need now, Your Highness; plenty of it—and no exercise. Not until that side heals. Good food and rest.” He handed her a packet of herbs wrapped in paper. “Soak your hands and feet in a solution of this a couple of times a day. It’ll take the bruising down quickly, and help those cuts to heal.”

Jenevra nodded. “Thanks, Wynn.” She hesitated slightly. “You don’t absolutely have to tell Commander Rabenaldt about everyone who’s been in here do you?”

Wynn smiled craftily, as he pushed her gently into Captain Tessier’s waiting hands. “Only if they don’t follow my instructions, Highness.”

Back in her tent, Jenevra stopped dead as she saw Ki-Nimh’s sword lying on the table. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her composure and dropped down onto the bench at the side of the table, still staring at it. Tentatively she reached for the hilt, trying to untie the red cord she had tied around it. Frowning as her shaking, battered hands struggled to cooperate, and the blanket she had round her slipped from her shoulders, she swore in annoyance.

“I know what you need.” Tessier announced, making her jump as she’d forgotten he was there. “This’ll warm you up faster than those blankets,” he promised, pouring a large quantity of amber liquid into a cup and placing it into her hands. Pouring one for himself, he sat down, uninvited, in the large chair.

Jenevra put the drink on the table, sitting stiffly on the end of the bench. Although her fingers continued picking at the cords, her eyes were distant, haunted.

Completely focused on her, Tessier set his drink down and knelt in front of her; taking hold of both her hands. “Seriously, you need to drink this.” He held the cup out to her again, wrapping her fingers around it. As her gaze slid away again, Tessier sighed, recognizing that the events of the night were catching up to the young girl. Guiding her hands with his, he managed to get her to swallow a mouthful of the warming liquid. He wrapped the blanket round her once more, picking her up in his arms, and moving over to the chair; thoroughly startled as the princess suddenly came back to life, struggling violently.

“What the … what’re you doing?” She tried to wriggle from his grip, a panicked look on her face.

Fortunately, she had nothing like her usual strength, and Captain Tessier held her easily as he sat down, holding her tightly against him. “Will you calm down? What on earth is the problem? Just sit still. You’ll feel warmer.”

Unable to break his encircling grasp, Jenevra pushed against his chest, but she had nothing left in her. Breathing rapidly, she had no choice but to be held, and slowly, very slowly, stopped trying to fight and leaned against him.

Very softly, he kissed her.

Her eyes widened; looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and wonder.

Tessier kissed her again, a long passionate kiss this time that seemed to take possession of her soul, and left her gasping.

Pushing herself away slightly onto the edge of his knee, Jenevra chewed on her lip, reminded of several other occasions and praying this would turn out like none of them. “Is that what it’s supposed to be like?”

“What’s supposed to be like?” He saw bright patches of pink appearing high on her cheekbones.

“A kiss.” Totally flushed now, she stared at the floor. “Is that how a kiss is supposed to feel?”

“Why? I thought you told me you’d been kissed before?” A teasing smile appeared on Tessier’s face as he watched Jenevra trying to overcome her embarrassment. He took one of her hands in his, kissing each bruised finger; planting a warm kiss in the center of her palm, and one on the inside of her wrist. Placing his feet up on the table, he slid her back towards him, holding her tightly against his chest. “What did this one feel like, Princess?”

Lip caught between her teeth, she raised bewildered eyes to his face. “Like everything inside had turned to melted butter,” she whispered.

Tessier felt a moment of pure satisfaction, a triumph beyond anything he had hoped for. “Melted butter?” He murmured; crushing her mouth under his again as she nodded. His lips were hot and strong on hers, tenderly demanding as his thumb stroked along her jaw and down her neck. He lifted his head, watching her run her tongue along her lips, and a slow smile curve her mouth. When her eyes fluttered open again, the expression of utter trust in them made him feel like a god, and he realized right then that—good or bad—he couldn’t live without her in his life.

Burrowing his head into the soft skin of her neck, he began a slow exploration of sensitive spots like the one he’d inadvertently found when she woke from her nightmare. A muffled squeak and a giggle, along with a quiver he could feel run through her told him he’d rediscovered at least one of them. Without warning a conversation he’d had with the Chancellor’s wife at Phillip and Christiana’s wedding crossed his mind.

“She’s still just a child really, Captain,” Lady Menzetti had said to him. “All she needs is someone to love her and make her laugh. She’s warrior enough, she doesn’t need anyone to fight her battles for her. She takes herself far too seriously.”

Another smothered giggle interrupted his memory, and he grinned as he thought of how few people had ever heard the princess actually giggling like a little girl. “Well, Princess, how are we doing so far?” His warm brown eyes glowed like caramel in the lamplight. “Ready for a little more?” His eyes gleamed as her smile answered him. Resting her head in the crook of his arm, Blaise kissed her again, his free hand stroking gently along her face and throat. Feeling the slight apprehension in her as his tongue flickered against her lips, he ran his thumb along her jaw. “Relax, I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, rubbing softly beneath her lower lip until her mouth opened under his. With a small murmur of pleasure he began to tease her lips and tongue with his, still stroking her face and neck. He could feel the tension literally melt out of her as he continued; her arms went around his neck, her hands tangled in his hair and she pressed against him. Losing himself in their growing passion, Blaise ran his hand down Jenevra’s back, caressing the long line of her spine, generating another tremor in the girl across his lap. Brushing her hair back, he kissed the smooth throat, sliding the loose linen shirt off her shoulder and moving his lips soothingly along the bruised skin there. With his head buried in her soft flesh, he brought his hand around her side, running it lightly up to her breast, feeling her respond to his touch.

Pushing away suddenly, the princess limped stiffly to the far side of the tent, arms folded tightly across her chest. “No! We can’t do this. Absolutely not.”

“Princess?” Blaise was worried. “What’s wrong? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Avoiding him, Jenevra paced around, keeping the table in between them. “No,” she said, absently. “You didn’t hurt me. But I can’t do this. You have to go.”

“No until you tell me what’s wrong.” Blaise tried to catch her arm, letting go swiftly as she pulled away, gasping slightly and holding onto her side. “Alright,” he held his hands up resignedly. “I won’t do anything. Just tell me what the problem is.”

“I just can’t do that, Captain,” she waved one hand vaguely around the tent. “I can’t be involved with anyone; especially not another officer.”

“What?” Tessier knew that most of her Flight had been selected on the basis of no family ties, and assumed that was what she meant—not having a relationship outside the Flight—although her objection didn’t quite make sense to him. “You have brothers, a sister; your cousin is the Emperor, and you pretty much grew up with him. Then there’re the Logansson twins. Gavin’s lost Logan now, but you still allowed them into your Flight. The rules are already bent on that issue. Why shouldn’t you …?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Tessier,” Jenevra snapped; the intensity of the feelings she’d just experienced causing near panic in her shattered state. She’d never considered how an event such as this would affect her. The topic had never even been broached during her training on the Island, and Jenevra was totally stricken at how quickly she had been overwhelmed. “But I’ve no intention of being another of your conquests. The Emperor will probably want me to marry someone at some point. I can’t jeopardize that just to satisfy your need to have every woman you meet.”

“That’s not fair, princess,” Tessier looked hurt. “I love you.”

Jenevra snorted in disbelief. “Pull the other one, Captain. How many girls have you said that to?” Holding the tent flap open, she couldn’t look at him. “Thank you for looking after me, but you need to leave now.”

Ducking through the opening, Tessier paused, leaning his head close to Jenevra’s. “Just so you know, Princess; you’re wrong about me. I’ve never told any woman that I love her; just you.” Smiling slightly as he saw her head come up to look at him as he said it, he kissed her again. “Maybe I’ll marry you, Captain Couressime—just to prove my point! Sleep well, my princess.” He chuckled at the muffled curses coming from inside the tent as he walked away.

The following morning, Jenevra pulled on soft gloves to cover the cuts on her hands. Belting the Spirit sword around her waist, just a little lower than usual to avoid pulling on the stitches, she picked up Ki-Nimh’s sword and Misha’s talisman and set out for Ki-Nimh’s tent.

Wynn, the healer, was already with Ki-Nimh when she arrived, and wasn’t pleased to see the princess, especially when he saw the sword in her hand. “I thought I told you to rest?”

“I have. I’ve slept a little since I saw you. That’s more than I usually manage.” She raised a hand against his soft-voiced protests. “I’ll be fine, honestly. I won’t do too much, but I have to be out there with the other officers. I don’t want them to know what happened last night. If I’m not there, they’ll know something’s wrong. Anyway, how’s Ki-Nimh doing? Is he well enough to travel today do you think?”

“I think,” Wynn folded his arms determinedly. “That he needs to rest before you move him. And you certainly shouldn’t be thinking of riding either.”

She frowned. “Tomorrow?”

“I doubt it.” Wynn wouldn’t let her push him: not at the expense of his patient’s health.

Giving up, Jenevra placed Ki-Nimh’s sword back on its stand, draping Misha’s talisman over it and cutting the red cord from the hilt and from one of her wrists; leaving the pieces on the base of the stand. She murmured a short prayer of cleansing and thanksgiving over it before covering it with a large silk square specially dedicated to that purpose.

Spider and Finn exchanged amused glances with each other as she wandered into their camp a little later, a little slower of step and paler than usual.

“Morning, Captain. Sleep well?” Spider inquired.

Shooting him a dangerous glance, Jenevra turned to Brogan. “How is everyone today, Sergeant?” she asked, nodding slightly towards where Gavin Logansson sat, head resting on his arms.

“Not too bad, Captain, although … if I might make a suggestion? I think maybe we could miss a training run this morning. Gavin certainly isn’t up to it, and a couple of the others are stiff and sore. Nothing serious, I just think a rest day would be good for them.”

“Fine, I could use a day myself.” She smiled at his look of surprise. “You can tell them, though. That way you get to look like the hero around here.” Sobering slightly, she asked if anyone had thought about what to do for Logan. “It’s not like we’ve established anything yet, for those we lose from the Flight. Theiss didn’t count. Has anyone asked Gavin?”

Brogan shook his head. “I’ll talk to him this morning. The sooner we can take care of that the better. It’s not good to have death hanging around too long.” He scratched at his beard, clearing his throat, as he always did when he had something to say to her.

“What?” she asked.

“Well, since you ask—you appear to be limping. You weren’t limping yesterday that I remember.”

“I’ve just pulled a muscle in my back. It’s nothing, really. It’s just making walking a little uncomfortable.” She waved her hand airily, dismissing it.

“And there seem to be more bruises on your face than yesterday.”

“Delayed reaction, Sergeant.”

“Delayed reaction? And the reason we’re wearing gloves today Captain?”

“Blisters.”

“Blisters?” Brogan repeated; disbelief etched plainly across his broad face.

“That’s right, Sergeant,” Jenevra was all innocence. “Blisters … from all the sword work yesterday. Delicate skin, you know.”

“Delicate?” Brogan snorted. “How many hours a day do you practice? Your hands must be like leather.”

A look of concern appeared in her eyes. “Really? Maybe I need to do something about that,” she mumbled as she wandered off, lost in thought.

As Brogan turned suspicious eyes onto Spider and Finn who were watching, grinning, they both suddenly found a burning need to occupy themselves out of his sight.

Ambling through the camp at a pace far removed from her usual stride and trying very hard not to limp; Jenevra heard a piercing whistle, and looked around to see Baran Wargentin waving at her from a distance. Aching all over, she relished the opportunity to stand and wait for him to catch up with her. The Prince’s normally sparkling eyes were dull from lack of sleep, but he greeted her with a gleaming smile. “How are you feeling, Princess? You saw the healer last night?”

She grimaced lightly, nodding in confirmation. “Just a bit achy … a few stitches.”

“Commander Rabenaldt wants to see the Flight Captains this morning. You should tell Captain Tessier.” Baran stared ahead, his expression bland, but a lilt in his voice alerted her.

“Why? I don’t know where he is,” she said, noncommittally.

“Really? But, I thought—” Baran broke off, surprise evident.

“What?”

“Nothing, Princess, I just thought maybe you two might have … talked, last night.” He glanced down at her, running a hand over his beard. “I thought maybe he might have said something.” Pulling her arm through his and turning their stroll towards Raik’s tent, Baran patted her hand gently. “Don’t you know how Tessier feels about you?”

“He said something last night. I just don’t believe him.”

Baran nodded. “I can see why you’d be suspicious of him,” he said. “But I’ve known Blaise for years, Princess, and I can honestly say I’ve never seen him like this. He really does care for you. I thought he’d tell you, after what happened. But then, I’m just a hopeless romantic at heart, you know. Not many people know that.”

“I just knew Clera had to have seen something in you,” Jenevra noted, smiling. The smile faded as she added, “I’ve no intention of being another of his conquests, Baran. Anyway, even if I did care for him—which I don’t—we both have Flights, responsibilities. It’s probably just the novelty of someone not throwing themselves at his feet that appeals to him anyway.”

The startled expressions on the faces of Raik, Richard, Stephan, Mikyle Manvi and Rafael Massili as Jenevra entered the tent on Baran’s arm were priceless. As Baran solicitously settled the princess into a chair and took the one directly next to it, he leaned across and whispered into her ear, “We’re off to a great start. Last night we left together just after I announced our ‘understanding’. This morning we appear together. Their imaginations must be turning cartwheels already. Good thing they don’t know how you really spent last night.”

Jenevra turned bright red again, which the assembled men ascribed totally to whatever Baran had just whispered to her, rather than the appearance of Captain Tessier in the tent.

Blaise took a seat directly opposite them, his expression unfathomable. Gazing steadily across at them, he didn’t even flicker a muscle when Baran beamed at him, winked and laid his arm possessively across the back of Jenevra’s chair.

Raik announced that he had decided to hold each of the units in place for a couple more days, to allow the wounded to recover more, and for a ceremony to honor the dead, of which there were blessedly few after a battle involving so many. There would be the traditional games and contests for those able to participate, which met with a rumble of approval from all of the men; although Captain Manvi was quick to point out that Jenevra had managed to acquire several experts in her Flight.

“Not my fault, gentlemen,” she shook her head, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “All I asked for were men with no families. I just took what I was given. You all have so many men in your Flights. In fact, Captain Manvi, you have more men to choose from than any of us. Surely you can come up with enough competition for my twenty two? Or is it just that you don’t believe in training them?”

“Touché, Princess,” Baran laughed. “But I think in the interests of fairness I should bring my Guard to join your Flight for the games, just to even the numbers up slightly. Don’t you agree Tessier?”

“I’m sure I have absolutely no opinion on the subject Your Highness,” Tessier didn’t even meet his gaze.

“If we could get back to the games?” Raik’s tone brooked no further interruption, and the next hour or so was spent planning the events that would take place over the next day and a half. Following the games, each of the Captains would have a new assignment. Jenevra already knew she would take Ki-Nimh back to Mirizir, although she was mildly surprised to hear Baran offer to ride south with her Flight at least as far as the Menzetti estates.

“Actually, Your Highness, I had intended to ask you to return to the Imperial Palace with some dispatches for me, if it wouldn’t inconvenience you too much?” Raik declined his offer coolly. “I’m certain His Majesty the Emperor will have messages for your Lord Father. I thought I’d send Captain Tessier down to Mirizir. He has a small unit and can move faster to rejoin his Flight after that.”

“Don’t know why you all think I need a keeper,” Jenevra grumbled, irritated. Chancing a glimpse under her eyelashes at Tessier she caught a worrying gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“I hate to disappoint you, Commander,” Baran said. “But I really do need to return to Lorthia. My wife will be having our next child fairly soon, and my life won’t be worth living if I’m not back in time.”

Accepting reluctantly his lack of control over Baran’s actions, Raik moved swiftly on through the other assignments. Captain Manvi would move south through Southern Maressia, Jantara and Abalos-Colles. Stephan, in favor of any move that would bring him back to Princess Allegra, quickly announced that he would remain with Manvi’s Flight, and Richard elected to stay with his brother. Shadow Flight was assigned to Trevannta after Mirizir, and Captain Tessier’s Flight would head to northern Bortka and the Diruthian border. Satisfied with the arrangements, Raik dismissed his Captains to prepare their Flights for the games.

Shadow Flight was ecstatic at the prospect of games between the Flights. They knew that Finn Corrigan had out-shot everyone for the last five years, and Simon had almost taken the title of Swordsman last year. As Simon’s skills had improved during his short time in the Shadow Flight, they were hopeful of at least two of the more coveted titles being brought home to this new Flight, giving them some serious status among the other Imperial Flights. Wulfgar was a strong contender for several events, and Kallan Bana seemed promising for some riding skills. Gavin Logansson had asked to be excused from watching the games. He looked tired and pale; much like the Captain, Brogan thought to himself as he stood with her watching the Flight warm up with sword drills. Gavin had requested that Logan be buried back at the Palace Barracks. There was a small cemetery there that had been used for several centuries for warriors from the Border Patrol. “Not that he wasn’t proud to be part of this Flight, Brogan,” Gavin had explained. “But we were Border Patrol for a lot longer.”

Jenevra had been happy to agree to this, asking Gavin only if they could hang Logan’s sword back in their barracks. “That way we never forget those who fought with us.”

As midday came, bright and breezy, the heralds sent out a brassy call for the games to begin: summoning all of the Flights, or portions thereof, to the field. Baran Wargentin, true to his word, rode his personal Guard down to join the Shadow Flight at the far end of the field, joining Jenevra as she stood watching the events. “How are you feeling?” He asked quietly. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” she returned, wryly; wrapping her cloak closer. “I’m just really tired, and a bit cold.”

Baran squinted at the sun high overhead. It wasn’t cold at all, although, he reasoned, maybe the cold and wet from the previous night had given her a chill. He suggested it to her only to be met with a look of blazing indignation. “I’m never sick!”

“I think you might be now,” Baran said, pushing a damp strand of chestnut hair away from her face as a cover for touching her forehead. “You’re burning up.” His eyes were concerned. “You should go see the healer again.”

“Baran, I’ll be fine; stop fussing.” She pulled the cloak off, as if to make a point, but Baran could see bright patches on her cheeks that had nothing to do with his presence there.

Brogan, whose suspicious instincts had kicked into high gear when Prince Baran arrived to conspiratorial nods from Spider and Finn, was also concerned about his Captain. He too had noticed that the princess was looking decidedly under the weather, and had mentioned his concerns to Bernardo. “Something’s going on that we don’t know about, my friend, and I don’t like it one bit. Something’s wrong.”

The afternoon wore on and, as expected, Simon and Finn brought the two most prestigious titles back to the Flight. Wulfgar barely lost to another giant of a man from Mikyle Manvi’s Flight in the wrestling matches; and the newly arrived Sasha proved to be highly capable with a knife, out-throwing many more experienced men from all units. He was a quiet young man, totally thrilled that the older men of the Flight were congratulating him: it was as if he felt he had finally passed some sort of unspoken test. When Jenevra clapped him on the shoulder and offered her congratulations, he turned red, but still managed to ask shyly if she was going to enter the foot races. All the Flight was unanimous in adding their voices to the idea, but she declined, commenting that it wouldn’t be fair to depress that many men in one afternoon. Just then Baran was called to take part in a sword demonstration with one of the men from his Guard, and Jenevra was able to ignore D’Agostino’s comments on the subject under pretence of giving her undivided attention to the Prince.

Spider took advantage of Baran’s absence to ask her quietly if she needed anything: startled when she asked him to go ask the healers for a handful of laowenton leaves.

“Just tell them we need a small store for our supplies,” she told him. “Tell them Bernardo sent you for the Flight. Don’t mention my name.”

Spider returned quickly with bad news. “Healer Wynn said to tell you he’s not giving you any: if it’s that bad, you should be in bed. He said he wants to see you later, Captain.” Spider gave her a veiled look of sympathy as she pulled a face. “Something about telling you to rest, and not following instructions?”

As the day lengthened, the location for the activities changed, heading towards the evening’s ceremonies for the fallen. The few dead not of the Border Patrol had been taken to the beach where Jenevra and Misha had fought the night before: a huge pyre having been built for them. Jenevra drew a sharp breath as vivid memories of the previous evening assaulted her mind. Physically and emotionally exhausted now, she sat on her horse for a long moment, gazing with unseeing, burning eyes at the sea, hearing only the pounding of the waves and smelling the sharp tang of salt in the air. Unthinkingly she threw her leg over the front of her saddle, sliding down from her horse into Baran’s waiting arms, as he tried to stop her stretching and tearing open the wounds she’d received on that very shore. The images played in her mind almost as if she was back in the night before, the sounds of the swords connected through the talismans singing through her head again.

A group of officers had gathered near the pyre, and there seemed to be a lot of discussion going on. Baran was just going to send Finn to find out what was happening; a horrid suspicion building in his mind; when Richard Couressime strode up to them.

“Jenn—” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he stopped, unsure of how to break the news to her. She had said she was prepared to kill Mikhail Dhorani yesterday, but he wasn’t certain of how true that had been. How much had she really cared for Misha? “Jenn, they’ve found something … someone, down by the sea. It’s Mikhail Dhorani. I’m sorry, Jenn, but he’s dead.” Attributing the pale face and dilated pupils in his sister’s face to the sudden shock he’d given her, he hugged her close to him.

Shaking him off, Jenevra pushed past him blindly, walking towards the spot where she had fought Misha last night; her mind reeling with a double-edged grief. They left him behind? They couldn’t even be bothered to pick him up and take him with them? Ah, Misha, you betrayed us all for men like that? She moved sorrowfully through the men surrounding Misha’s corpse until she was face to face with the reality of her partner’s death once more; her eyes taking in irrelevant details like the fact that both heavy silk jackets were nowhere in sight.

Raik was there, turning to her with a deep sympathy in his glance; like Richard he mistakenly put her lack of emotional response down to the shock of seeing the headless prince.

Baran’s arm was supporting her gently, holding her on her less injured side. His eyes met with those of Blaise Tessier and he signaled discreetly for the Captain to join them. “We need to get her away from here, Tessier. She’s not going to make it much longer.”

Tessier nodded slightly, his heart aching at the lost look on Jenevra’s face. “Commander,” he moved nearer to Raik. “I’m not sure this is the best place for Captain Couressime to be right now. Should I escort her back up to the camp?” Leaning towards Raik he whispered conspiratorially, “If we tell her that Kian Menzetti is showing signs of waking up she’ll probably rush up there to be with him.”

“Good idea, Captain,” Raik looked at Tessier in some surprise. “I didn’t think you two were getting on too well; it’s strangely thoughtful of you.”

Tessier shrugged, dismissively. “It’s hard not to feel something for her, Commander … especially after yesterday. I guess I never really thought she’d be able to go through with the whole battle thing.” A more normally cynical tone crept into his voice as he gazed towards Baran Wargentin hovering protectively around the princess. “And there’s always the added bonus of moving her away from his clutches.”

Raik smiled briefly. “I couldn’t agree more, Captain.”

The news that Ki-Nimh had regained consciousness seemed to break through the princess’s apparent grief at seeing Misha, and she headed to the horses at a pace far more like her usual, hoping Tessier wouldn’t mention the night before; she didn’t think she could handle any more emotional turmoil right now. Life had been so peaceful on the Island. If this was what life in the Empire was like, she couldn’t wait to leave it behind her again. Swinging up onto her horse she felt a pop in her side and knew she’d managed to split at least one of her stitches. Ignoring that, she rode uncomfortably alongside Blaise, who explained as they rode that it had just been a ploy to get her away from the beach.

Dismounting back at the camp, Captain Tessier’s help left his hands sticky with fresh blood and so, at his insistence, Jenevra checked in at the healer’s tent: her lack of protest telling him louder than words that she was far from well. Inside the tent, Wynn’s tall form moved quietly among the injured remaining in his care towards her.

With quiet professionalism he checked over the princess’s injuries; occasional clucks of disapproval emanating from him. “You do know you’ve torn the whole of that back wound open, don’t you? And that long cut too? And just to add to it, you have a fever. Fortunately it doesn’t appear to be from the wounds.” His expression was frosty; his ears seeming to jut out even more than usual, like warning flags. “I told you not to do anything—to rest; but no, you have to traipse around, riding … Tore knows what else. Fighting again, I suppose?”

“No, I haven’t. All I’ve done is ridden to the beach and back. That’s it. I even managed to avoid the games.”

“Huh,” Wynn grumbled, disparagingly. “Well, I can’t stitch that wound again, Princess. It’ll have to be cauterized this time.”

“I know,” she sighed, watching him blow into the brazier to bring it back to full heat, adding a little more fuel to the glowing embers. “I guess you’d best just do the same to the long cut too.”

One of Wynn’s assistants appeared with a large mug of a steaming brew, tiny yellow leaves floating in it, and handed it to Jenevra swallowed the contents swiftly.

Wynn nodded. “Laowenton. I thought I’d better have some ready. When you were asking for it earlier on I knew you must actually be hurting. Better drink it all before we do this.” He placed several long-bladed knives deep in the heart of the fire. “Let me clean that wound out again first. We don’t want to have to open it up again.” He called to Captain Tessier, who’d been hovering on the far side of the tent, to hold the princess while he treated the deep gash across her ribs, over-riding Jenevra’s objection, although she insisted firmly on remaining upright this time.

Wrapping his arms tightly around her as Wynn drew the red-hot blade swiftly across the gash, Blaise felt her shudder just slightly against him as the heat seared her skin, but she didn’t make a sound. The smell and sound of her scorching flesh sickened him.

“Once more, Highness, and we’ll be done with this one: just the back wound to deal with.” Wynn applied the blade again, sealing the wound completely. Applying the same procedure to the smaller area on her back, Wynn smeared some light liquid over both of the wounds and reapplied the bandage around her waist.

Slightly paler, but otherwise apparently none the worse, Jenevra thanked him, promised to rest, and left. She was humming tunelessly as they sauntered slowly along to her tent, her hand enfolded tightly in Tessier’s, although she didn’t seem to have noticed.

Blaise laughed as they entered the tent. “What are you doing? Singing?” He turned her around in his arms, only realizing as he looked into her eyes, noticing the hugely dilated pupils leaving just the faintest rim of piercing blue around the edge. “Oh … he gave you laowenton. I thought you were being curiously amiable. Well now—” A devious grin spread across his face as he kissed her. Laowenton leaves were an essential part of a healer’s kit in the army, as strong sedatives were needed all too often after battles; but there was also a rumored side-effect on women that Captain Tessier had never been privileged to witness. He was torn between final proof of that hypothesis and doing the decent thing as Jenevra slid her hands up under his shirt. Incredibly, Blaise managed to control himself and the princess long enough to settle on the floor: sitting with his legs stretched out crossed in front of him, back leaning against her small bed; she lying with her head across his legs; her eyes closed and hair streaming loose as Blaise took the opportunity to unbraid and untangle it as she lay there.

With every stroke of his fingers through the rippling chestnut mass of her hair, Jenevra felt a small tingle. When his touch brushed directly against her skin she drew an almost electric jolt as the laowenton dulled the pain in her side but sent her senses spiraling in myriad other directions. Every detail of him became magnified, intensified to a point at which nothing else could enter her awareness. She could smell the same lemon-mint scent that she’d first become aware of as he held her after her nightmare; but now it was as sharp as if she was lying in a citrus grove; the faint aroma of horses and dust; even the salty tang of the sea. The muscle of his thigh along the back of her shoulders was long and tight under the softness of buckskin, caressing her neck with a warm velvety smoothness. Opening her eyes, she lost herself completely in his. Minutes passed as his warm brown gaze flickered with yellow, gold and black, creating a kaleidoscope vision that she thought she would never get enough of. When he leaned over to kiss her, every nerve ending in her body seemed bound and determined to make its way into her lips, sending a shuddering shock through the princess, the intensity of which hit Tessier like a thunderbolt. Pulling back, he raised her into his arms, kissing her deeply; feeling the tension build in her like wine filling a wineskin.

Totally losing any conscious control, as the heavy dose of laowenton reached its full potency within her; Jenevra flung herself up, kneeling astride Blaise’s thighs. Thick, waves of hair flowed loose past her hips, cloaking them both as she leaned forward, responding to his kiss with unbridled passion; her fingers caressing his skin and hair, pulling his hands onto her body with an urgency that Blaise wasn’t prepared to withstand. Only as she pulled him away from the bed and pushed his shoulders to the ground, sitting on top of him did Blaise grudgingly admit to himself that this was totally wrong: she was oblivious to everything, drugged, unaware. The problem now was that the laowenton had given her increased determination, along with everything else. He didn’t want to hurt her, but his efforts to hold her wrists weren’t having much impact. “Princess? Jenevra, will you stop? I don’t want to have to hurt you, Jenn.”

“Having fun?” Baran called softly from the tent entrance.

“Oh, thank Tore! Baran, get her off me will you?” Blaise was still fighting Jenevra’s flailing arms as she tried to pin him down again.

“Hello, Your Highness,” Jenevra stopped fighting Blaise and looked up at Baran, smiling invitingly; dark fringed eyes huge amidst disheveled hair, shirt hanging loosely off one shoulder.

“Laowenton,” Blaise grunted in explanation.

“Ah,” Baran looked amused as he stood behind Jenevra, lifting her easily from on top of Tessier. “So it’s true then?” One of his huge arms wrapped around the wriggling Princess; he held out the other to help Tessier up from the floor.

Tessier pulled his clothes straight. “Apparently; but I’ve never heard of anyone reacting to it like that. It’s like she’s possessed.”

“Funny though,” Baran grinned.

His sense of humor beginning to reassert itself, Tessier grinned back. “I have to admit I was enjoying it; but then …. It must be love! Do you want to put her down, by the way?” He nodded to where Baran still had Jenevra trapped underneath his arm. “On second thoughts, maybe not. Let me see if that healer has anything that will work against it. Just hang on to her for one minute!”

A short while later, Wynn came hurrying into the tent along with Tessier. Jenevra was now firmly clamped between both of Baran’s arms, still writhing, and Baran’s normally mild expression was looking considerably more flustered than usual. “You’d better have something that would stun an ox in there healer,” he breathed.

Quickly assessing the situation, Wynn dipped into the small pouch he was carrying with him. “It’s my own fault. I should have remembered she’s a woman. Laowenton doesn’t have this effect on men, and even on women it isn’t usually this extreme,” he explained. “I gave her three times as much as I would normally because of that ridiculous pain tolerance she has, and to take care of that fever she’s running. I probably shouldn’t have given her anything,” he berated himself. “She could have taken the cauterization without it. I was just hoping it would have knocked her out for the night.”

“I hope you’ve got something in there that will,” Baran winced as Jenevra’s elbow dug into his ribs again.

“Captain Tessier,” Jenevra beamed at Blaise as she spotted him. “Baran’s no fun at all.”

“Alright, let’s see how we’re going to do this,” Wynn extracted a small vial from his bag. “It’s probably best to put it into something and see if she’ll drink it.”

“Brandy,” Tessier said, quickly. “Over in that bottle.”

Wynn peered at the vial. “Laowenton, brandy and this? Well, if it doesn’t knock her out, it’ll kill her. Either way, at least she’ll be quiet.” He poured a large amount of brandy and added the entire contents of the vial. “Now the trick is to get her to drink it.”

“That we can do,” Tessier said pulling the princess to sit on his knee. “Here,” He put the brandy into her hands, lifting the cup up to her lips. “Drink this. You like this …remember?”

Jenevra sipped at the drink and smiled delightedly. Throwing the rest down in one, she handed the cup back to Blaise.

“Normal girls would fall over with just the amount of brandy in that cup,” Wynn noted dryly. “I only hope she hasn’t ripped everything open again with all that struggling.”

“Actually, Captain Tessier was doing most of the struggling,” Baran comforted the healer. Looking at Jenevra and Tessier, he asked, “Is it my imagination, or is she getting quieter?”

Blaise’s hand waved at them, motioning the affirmative, as the princess kept her lips tightly locked to his. A few minutes later, her head fell against his shoulder, and Tessier was able to look up. He sighed deeply, kissed her gently on the forehead and lifted her over to her bed.

Wynn quickly checked that she hadn’t reopened the wounds. Satisfied, he stood and looked at the two other men, commenting with wry understatement, “Well, that was interesting.”

Baran grimaced, rubbing at a tender spot the princess had elbowed him in. “Do you think she’ll stay asleep? I’d hate to think we were going to have to do all that again in another couple of hours.” He stretched, sleepily.

“I think we’re good, for now.” Wynn said. “I’m going to send one of my assistants in to watch her though, just in case.”

“What’s going on?” Richard Couressime appeared, having heard voices as he passed his sister’s tent. He seemed annoyed to see Baran Wargentin there, although he was more puzzled by the healer’s presence.

“Her Highness was more upset than we thought about Dhorani’s death,” Tessier lied quickly. “I called the healer in to give her a sedative, but it took the extra pair of hands for us to get it down her. You know how she is.” He pointed to the unconscious girl in the corner. “Wynn’s sending a healer in to keep an eye on her. You’d better stay too, Your Highness—you know, for propriety.”

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Jenevra’s absence from Raik’s morning strategy session was easily explained the next day. Richard had completely accepted Tessier’s story, leaving his small sister still unconscious back in the tent as he came to attend the meeting. The fact that she’d had to be given a sedative really struck most of them. As far as any of them could remember, the princess had never actually been sick in her life; never had to see a healer for anything other than bumps, bruises, sprains and cuts gathered in the course of mischief.

Finally surfacing late in the afternoon, groggy and slow after the combination of stimulants and sedatives she’d had, Jenevra was yawning and rubbing at her face as she slouched into the Command tent just before dinner, flopping down into a chair and accepting a cup of water gratefully from the steward. Her hair was tied back simply, and the soft gray pants and tunic made her look even younger than her nineteen years.

Captain Manvi, sitting to her right, gave her hand a gentle squeeze, which surprised her; eliciting a smile for him. He seemed to have become far more comfortable in her presence recently. She didn’t know why that was but, as everything else seemed to be going badly, she was pleased.

Baran and Blaise arrived together, along with Admiral Massili. Blaise took the chair opposite, an indecipherable expression on his face. “Feeling a little better, Captain?” he inquired, courteously.

“Yes, thank you, Captain.” She felt her stomach lurch; sensing something she couldn’t quite read in his eyes.

Dinner progressed, more or less uneventfully. Rafael entertained them all with some of his stories. Jenevra was particularly amused, even laughed, at one involving Gervaise D’Agostino and tucked it away in her memory for future use. As the night drew in, most of the younger members of the party moved outside, sitting round a small fire. Raik, Stephan and Rafael remained inside the tent, although the front was tied back again. Richard, Mikyle, Blaise, Baran and Jenevra lounged around the fire in a circle. Richard was sitting on a small log, with Jenevra leaning against his knee, watching the flames intently. Blaise moved to the opposite side of the fire, away from her.

The colors in the fire flickered and moved: black, gold, scarlet, brown, reminding her of something she could feel on the edge of her memory. Still slightly dazed from the drugs she stared into the fire for a long time, mesmerized by the patterns and colors jumping around. Raising her eyes after some time she found Blaise watching her intently through the flames, and had a sudden vivid image of the different colors in his eyes.

Richard moved across the circle to talk softly with Mikyle Manvi, leaving Jenevra pulling her knees up to rest her chin on them. Baran shifted to sit next to her. “How much do you remember about last night, Princess?” he whispered into her ear; his dark blond hair falling across her face as he leaned close.

That sounded ominous to Jenevra. “Not much,” she murmured, moving back slightly. “I remember being in the healer’s tent…at least I think I do. Then, nothing until this afternoon.” She turned guarded eyes onto the Prince next to her. “Why?”

“Well, it’s a bit of a shame you don’t remember, Princess. You seemed to be having such a good time.” Sliding his arm around her shoulders, Baran poured the whole story into her ear, while Blaise Tessier watched her face change from disbelief into devastated embarrassment; lowering her forehead onto her knees and wrapping her arms around the sides; shutting everyone out.

Baran and Blaise grinned at each other, cheerfully convinced that the princess would be running out of excuses to deny her feelings for Captain Tessier after this. When twenty minutes passed and there was still no sign of her moving, Blaise mimed across to Baran to see if she had fallen asleep. It only took the lightest touch of Baran’s hand on her back though for Jenevra’s head to whip up sharply, making the hulking Prince start.

“What?” she snapped; her eyes flashing dangerously at him.

Baran’s mouth dropped open. Of all the reactions he’d been expecting, this was not one of them. “I was just—”

“Just what?” Jenevra’s tone could have cut marble. “Just seeing what games you and your irritating friend could conjure up?”

“Well, no … I …” Baran stuttered.

“I don’t believe you,” she snarled. “Not one word of it. I expect that kind of underhanded deviousness from him, but not you, Your Highness. You can both keep out of my way from now on. I may have to work with that idiot,” she pointed across the circle at Tessier. “But that’s it. As far as I’m concerned, I’d be just as happy if I never saw either of you again.”

“Hang on a minute, Jenevra.” Baran wasn’t thrown for long, holding her arm tightly to prevent her standing up. “What on earth makes you think I’d lie to you about something like that? You don’t think I’d be that cruel, surely?” Frowning, a small crease appeared between his brows, and he caught her chin in his hand, tipping her face towards his. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you honestly think I would hurt you like that for fun. You can’t, can you?”

“He would,” Jenevra muttered, folding her arms stubbornly. “And we all know what good friends you are.”

Baran sighed deeply. “Princess, listen to me will you? Blaise Tessier would kill anyone who tried to hurt you, I swear it. It took three of us to stop him going after Dhorani the other night. Everything I told you about last night is true; if you don’t believe me go ask the healer. But I really don’t see what’s so bad about it?”

“What’s so bad?” Jenevra finally locked eyes with Baran; cold fury simmering. “After insisting that there could never be anything between us; the following night I, apparently, practically force myself on him, and you want to know what’s so bad?”

“That’s right,” Baran interrupted. “What are you so frightened of, Princess?”

She looked away quickly, hands balling into tight fists against her thighs. “I’m not frightened of anything. I don’t need him to fight my battles for me; or anyone else for that matter.” Pushing his hands away, Jenevra rose swiftly to her feet, stalking off into the night.

Looking across the fire to Blaise, who was ready to bolt after her, Baran waved him to sit down and shrugged apologetically. “I may not have helped much there, my friend,” he noted.

Heart thumping, Jenevra strode swiftly through the camp to the healers’ tent, looking for Wynn. The tall, jug-eared healer looked concerned when he heard her asking for him, but she quickly reassured him that she hadn’t damaged anything else.

“Yet,” Wynn added sourly.

Ignoring that, Jenevra stood scratching at the edge of a table, her gaze focused down at the wood. “Wynn,” she began, hesitantly. “Prince Baran just told me a very peculiar tale about last night. Is it true? Did I really …?”

Wynn nodded silently; feeling for the princess’s embarrassment as she accepted his word as truth. “But, Your Highness,” he said. “Please remember that you really had no control over any of it. I gave you a triple dose of laowenton. That’s partly why you’re not remembering anything.” He scratched at the tuft of white hair behind his ear, before adding cautiously, “If it helps at all, Captain Tessier was awfully concerned about you.”

Jenevra groaned softly, shading her eyes with her hand. “I’ll never hear the end of this.”

“He seems to have behaved like a perfect gentleman.”

“And it just gets worse,” she mourned, knowing now that she’d have to apologize. “Thanks, Wynn. You have no idea what a help you’ve been.”

Totally discomfited with the last few days, the princess was feeling a powerful urge to hit something, hard and for a very long time. Over and above the aching of her wounds, the abrasions and bruising; over the sting of humiliation of the past couple of nights with Captain Tessier, there was the deep abiding pain of killing Misha. The wrenching agony she had felt at the moment she took his head was still with her, feeling as though a part of her had quite literally been ripped out too. Emotionally and physically wrung out, a current of tension was building inside her; a need to purge all of the conflicting emotions in a purely cathartic empty rage. Deep in thought, she wandered to the Flight’s camp; joining those few still awake quietly. Bernardo and Brogan were pleased to see her about. The Flight knew she had been sedated for the day, and assumed it was because of Misha’s death. She made no move to disillusion them, merely assuring them that she was fine now. Spider was out on sentry duty, but Finn’s green eyes met hers once in sympathetic understanding.

As the men drifted off to settle into sleep, Jenevra began to leave. Brogan walked a little way with her, discussing their plans for the next few days in a soft voice. Hands clasped behind his broad back, the gruff sergeant brought her up-to-date on all of the men; adding new assessments of each now that he’d finally seen them all fight and, between them, they began making plans for changes to their normal training schedules.

Leaving her as they reached the top of the rise where most of the officer’s tents were, Brogan was reassured to see Prince Baran and Captain Tessier still hovering around. At least he knew she wouldn’t be wandering through the camp alone if they were nearby.

Jenevra felt nothing of the same calmness when she saw them waiting. Clenching her fingernails into her palms and taking a long, deep breath, she knew there was no avoiding them; and if she tried, they’d just make her regret it. “Baran, Tessier,” she greeted them as they closed in on her.

“Princess,” they chorused, standing directly in front of her, their arms folded.

Cursing softly, her head down, she missed the grin that passed between them. By the time she raised her face to them, their expressions were merely expectant. Biting her lip, Jenevra faced Baran. “I apologize, Your Highness. Wynn confirmed what you told me. I should have believed you.”

“Yes, you should,” Baran replied piously, tossing his hair back behind his shoulders. “But I’ll forgive you anyway; as soon as you say you’re sorry.”

“What?” Jenevra’s eyes narrowed, realizing that they were going to make the most of their opportunity. Closing her eyes and sighing, she muttered, “I’m sorry.”

“Now that didn’t sound very sincere did it, Tessier?”

Captain Tessier shook his head, sadly. “Not very, Baran, but I think Her Highness owes me more of an apology than she owes you. After all, you aren’t the one who was abused.”

“True, my friend, very true,” Baran moved to Jenevra’s side, draping his arm over her shoulders again. “Did you hear that princess? Poor Tessier feels abused—violated if I’m not mistaken. How could you do that to him? Cruel, princess.”

Even knowing that they were just trying to torment her, Jenevra’s eyes were anguished. “I am sorry, Captain Tessier, truly. I really did mean what I said the other night. I’ll keep out of your way going to Mirizir: stay with my Flight. I won’t bother you again.” Darting off into the night, she was soon lost in the shadows around the camp.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

The Shadow Flight’s journey to Mirizir was a far happier one for most of the Flight this time. Although Kian Menzetti still lay in a carriage, weakened severely by his fight with Jai-Nimh, he was now conscious, and there was no real urgency about getting to the Menzetti estate; unlike the Flight’s previous frantic gallop when Jenevra and Mikhail Dhorani had been near death. The company that traveled was larger, including one squadron of Captain Tessier’s men, and the Personal Guard of Prince Baran Wargentin of Lorthia traveling south back to his homeland.

Tormented by nightmares, Jenevra struggled not to fall asleep. Not wanting to disturb anyone, she moved away from them whenever they stopped, wrapping her cloak around her and settling against a tree or a rock, just trying to rest. Descending the last edge of the Maressian plateau three days ride from Mirizir, Jenevra’s eyes fell on the white sands of the dunes with a taunting mix of pleasure and pain. She and Misha had spent a peaceful day escaping from their duties and responsibilities on similar dunes closer to Mirizir. Jenevra bit her lip remembering how deeply she’d thought Misha had cared for her then: a stark contrast to the hatred she had seen in his eyes on that northern beach when she had taken his head and his talisman in retribution for his betrayal of her and the Order. Had she ever really loved him? She wasn’t sure. If not, it was certainly the closest she had come to it—and then she had killed him. Thinking about the dramatic reversal in their relationship, the princess worried over the idea like a sore tooth; how Misha had swung from loving to hating her so swiftly. It hit her anew how alone she was; had to be.

The soldiers of Shadow Flight, unaware of their young Captain’s dark thoughts, were vastly entertained, by the simmering relationship between the princess and Captain Tessier. Apparently indifferent to her stated aim of avoiding him, wherever Jenevra rode, Captain Tessier found his way to one side of her, with Baran Wargentin appearing on the other; making outrageous statements designed purely to annoy or challenge the princess. Piling on top of the emotions she was feeling about Misha’s betrayal, her embarrassment over her behavior under the influence of laowenton, and her confusion over the feelings Tessier was causing in her, Jenevra’s temper had worn thin on several occasions: riding at the head of her Flight in an almost constant cloud of irritation, aware that she was dangerously close to seriously damaging something, or someone.

Each time they stopped, Tessier found some way to be the one who helped the princess down from her horse, despite her best efforts to call on any member of her Flight for assistance. They, in turn, took an almost defiant delight in devising reasons why they couldn’t help, leaving her to Captain Tessier’s smirking aid. Almost to a man, the Shadow Flight approved of Captain Tessier, where their grudging acceptance of Prince Mikhail had been based solely on their Captain’s friendship with him. There were still only two of them—Spider Baudoin and Finn Corrigan—who actually knew that she had killed Misha on a stormy beach several nights ago; injuring herself quite badly in the process.

The sword wounds in Jenevra’s side were starting to close cleanly: still restricting her movements significantly, and the bruising and scratches were beginning to turn colors, but the stiffness was lessening marginally she thought. She’d explained her restrictions away by sticking to her story that she’d ripped a muscle in her back during the battle against the Diruthians. It didn’t stop her sending the Flight out on their daily training run though. By now they were well enough aware of her own preference to be active that they understood it hurt her more to stay behind while they ran.

When Ki-Nimh was awake, Jenevra could escape the tormenting banter of Baran and Tessier, riding next to the wagon he was being carried in. The weather was warm, so Laio had the canvas sides rolled up to allow the fresh air in at Master Ki’s request. As they traveled, Jenevra talked through the events of the last few days with her mentor, avoiding outright mention of Misha’s death within anyone else’s hearing. Ki-Nimh had held the cut red cords and the talisman up in his hand as they rode, and she had simply nodded to his questioning look. He knew there was only one way to remove a talisman once the bearers had been bonded by oath, and his piercing gray eyes had softened in sympathy, understanding some of what she was suffering silently. “Anyone know?” He asked quietly.

“Baran, Tessier, Corrigan and Spider.”

Ki-Nimh had nodded and they had moved on to discuss the various impulses Jenevra had been feeling, and the dreams and visions she was having. She wasn’t sure how much, if any, of it she could put down to the talisman. She’d never been told it could work like that, but they couldn’t discuss it too freely except when they stopped and the two of them could move away slightly.

The undulating grasslands of Maressia Major rolled south before them, ripe with the promise of summer. Slopes and plains of sweet meadow grasses full of wildflowers, were dotted with small copses of broad leafed oak and maple, slender limbed birch and dozens of clear, cool ponds. West lay the vast Lake of Essern where one of Jenevra’s youngest Flight members had grown up. Sasha seemed happy to be in an area he recognized, casting longing looks towards the road leading to Eastlake as they passed it. Keeping more or less to the coast, they stopped just short of the small port of Virat mid-morning on their second day of travel. Laio was feeling something wrong with one of the wheels on the wagon carrying Ki-Nimh and wanted it checked rather than risk it coming off while moving.

Halting in a gentle hollow, the men dispersed to various tasks as they always did; some scouring the nearby woods for firewood, small game or rabbits, others collecting small rocks to build their fire circles; and others tending to horses or preparing food.

Finn, Brogan and Danya came back fairly swiftly, with rabbits and seven or eight large ducks. Catching Jenevra’s smile at their enthusiasm Brogan walked across to where she was sitting, talking intently with Ki-Nimh. Hunkering down next to them, the burly sergeant leaned his elbows against his knees. “There’s a large pond over the other side of that slope,” he gestured to his right. “We got to the ducks before the others did.” He grinned as his Captain smirked, flicking a glance under her lashes towards Tessier’s Flight. “I thought it might be a good chance for the lads to have a bit of a clean up after they’ve eaten, Captain.”

Jenevra looked thoughtful. “A pond? You know, I think that’s an excellent idea. You tell them all they can take their time.”

As Brogan nodded agreement and walked back towards the rest of Shadow Flight gathering near to Bernardo’s cooking fires, Jenevra turned to Ki-Nimh, a strange look crossing her face.

Ki-Nimh leaned back against the thick trunk of the elm they were sitting beneath, folding his arms up inside his loose sleeved gray jacket. Saying nothing, he simply raised his eyebrows at the slight girl next to him.

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me, Nimh’a. What mischief’s brewing in that head of yours now?”

“Not mischief, Ki-Nimh,” she said, raising innocent eyes to meet his. “Discipline.” She hesitated just slightly before continuing. “I don’t think you’ll approve of what I’m thinking of doing, so I thought I just wouldn’t bother you with it.” At Ki-Nimh’s instruction to explain, Jenevra sighed, knowing a prohibition was coming her way. Pulling her feet in towards her; soles together and tapping her fingers on the toes of her soft boots, the princess told her mentor her thoughts. Expecting an angry outburst, she finished, staring doggedly at her feet and picking at the grass in front of her. A sharp slap to the back of her hand warned her.

“Must you always fidget?” Ki-Nimh growled, his craggy features as stern as ever. “I think you should follow your plan through.” He held up a silencing hand as she opened her mouth. “Your reasons are right, and for that alone I think we should trust your instinct on this. Under other circumstances I might question your method, but I feel you may be correct for this situation. Just be careful. Keep it simple and non-personal.” A smile almost flitted across his face as he saw Jenevra’s eyes widen in astonishment. “Once only, Nimh’a. It won’t work a second time.”

All of the men were making the most of this extended rest period. Baran’s men had apparently already been to the pond; the forty hulking Lorthian knights that made up Baran’s personal guard, all built to the same hugely muscled stature as their Prince, were wandering around without shirts, long hair dripping.

“Scenery’s improving,” Jenevra muttered, lying on her uninjured side, propped on one elbow in the grass. Picking at the petals of a bluebonnet, she closed her eyes, letting the summer sun warm her through. She swatted at a tickling sensation in her ear, opening her eyes to swat again when the irritation returned. Captain Tessier was sitting next to her, swinging a long stalk of wheat grass in one hand.

“Guilty,” he announced, without apology.

Fixing him with what she hoped was a frosty stare, Jenevra clenched her jaw. “Shouldn’t you be with your Flight, Captain Tessier?”

Bernardo approached, pushing a plate of roast duck into the princess’s hands. He’d given the hunters instructions long before that if they ever found duck they should get it; it was one of the things he was almost certain to be able to get the princess to eat. He was relieved when she stood up to walk back to the Flight with him; although the feeling evaporated as Tessier followed them. His annoyance grew as Tessier continued baiting Jenevra while she ate, although the princess appeared slightly detached, treating the Captain with a bland impassiveness they hadn’t seen for some time.

Sitting in the shade, Ki-Nimh made a small nod of approval as her eyes sought his. Under cover of picking up another piece of meat, the princess had made a gesture asking permission, and Ki-Nimh had agreed. It was becoming apparent that, while her own Flight accepted her, and in all honesty adored the young girl; they didn’t really believe in her. He thought it was time they all began to see exactly what she was capable of.

Delicately folding the crispy skin from the duck, Jenevra popped it into her mouth and began sucking the juice off each finger in turn.

Captain Tessier had rolled onto his back on the grass next to her, facing her. “I could do that for you, Princess,” he bantered softly. It was the most blatant suggestion he’d made in front of her Flight, and they all tensed; slightly confused as the princess didn’t immediately respond, but placed her plate carefully on the ground, a very slight smile on her face. “Really, Captain Tessier?” The sun reflected in her eyes, turning them the vivid sapphire blue that Tessier was hypnotized by. Just as she’d done with Will Theiss, her hand shot out, and the fingers Captain Tessier had been so keen to lick removed his ability to breathe. As he lay there choking, Jenevra slowly placed her little finger in her mouth, holding his gaze the entire time. “You know, Captain,” she said, sucking each finger in turn. “They say that suffocating enhances a sexual climax.”

Ki-Nimh clapped a hand over his eyes. He had not anticipated that.

Brogan choked on the mouthful of food he’d been eating.

Jenevra popped the last finger out of her mouth with a satisfied sigh; reaching down to push Tessier’s airway open again. “Tell me, Captain … how was it for you?” Bounding up and away into the trees, she was gone before her stunned Flight could say anything, or a discomfited Captain Tessier could sit up.

Bernardo stamped across, glaring at the meat still left on Jenevra’s plate. “Nice work, Captain!” he stormed. “You know how hard it is to get her to eat anything. Why can’t you just leave her alone?”

Brogan put his hand on Bernardo’s arm. The tall man shook it off, deeply angry. “No,” Brogan waved at Wulfgar and Spider who were already jumping up to follow the princess. “Just let her be for a while. She’ll come back when she’s ready.” Shooting a dark look at Captain Tessier, he pushed his sleeves further up his arms threateningly. “If you hurt her in any way Captain, rank notwithstanding, I’ll castrate you myself … sir.”

Noting Jenevra’s sudden departure, Baran strode across to see what had happened. After a grinning Gervaise D’Agostino had filled in the details, leaving nothing out and adding a few embellishments of his own to the tale, Baran grabbed Tessier’s arm and dragged him away from Jenevra’s men, exhaling noisily. “Tore’s teeth, Blaise, I swear I don’t know what’s wrong with you! Why do you always have to go a step too far?”

“Not my fault,” Tessier choked, still massaging his throat with one hand; his voice husky. “She almost killed me.” He coughed and smiled. “I’d really like to—”

“No! Don’t even think it, Tessier!” Baran slammed his hand over Tessier’s mouth. “You simply cannot go around talking like that about the princess. You know that. Her Flight’s been pretty tolerant up to now, but you’re really pushing your luck with them. Just leave her alone for a couple of days; until we get to Mirizir. If nothing else it’ll give Jenevra time to wonder why you’ve suddenly lost interest.” Keeping a tight grip on Tessier’s arm, Baran snatched up towels and a cake of soap from one of his men and pulled Tessier towards the pond. “Clean body, Blaise, clean mind.”

Most of Shadow Flight also decided to take advantage of the warm sun on the water and headed down to the pond to bathe. Bernardo headed back to the camp after a quick dip, wanting to have someone with Master Ki as much as possible in case of any relapse. Farid had bathed earlier in the morning so, at Bernardo’s suggestion, he went to see if he could find any sign of the princess. He caught up with her wandering along the edge of the woods, idly flicking a long switch at the knee length grasses, stirring up small clouds of pollen and seeds. Falling into step beside her, he said nothing; a factor the princess always appreciated. She found his presence peaceful, almost soothing; knowing he wouldn’t push her for conversation unless she chose it.

After walking for some time, Jenevra turned to Farid. “I’m glad you’re not down in the pond,” she said. “But you probably want to go back to camp, Farid. I’m afraid I’m going to have to behave in a very unladylike way again now, and I very much doubt you’ll approve.”

“You are my Captain. It is not necessary for me to approve your actions.” Farid looked mildly insulted, his dark brows coming together.

Jenevra shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she called back over her shoulder as she strode purposefully out of the woods towards the pond full of naked men. Standing on the sloping bank, Jenevra folded her arms, a mild expression on her face, and waited for them to notice her. It seemed to take a couple of minutes, but then, suddenly, they were all trying to get underwater as quickly as possible, spluttering and splashing as they did. Multiple cries of “Captain!” and a very startled, “Princess!” from Baran added to the melee.

Jenevra was unmoved, unsurprised and, apparently unimpressed. “Hello boys,” she called cheerily. “Thought I’d just pop down and have a word while you were all in a condition to listen carefully.” Sauntering along the bank she began picking up clothes. Rapidly gathering more than she could easily hold, she beckoned to Farid, whose glance seemed torn between amusement and horror. “You can make yourself useful if you’re going to insist on being here, Farid,” she said, dumping the armload of clothes into his hands and continuing picking more up. Assured now of the Flight’s interest in what she was doing, Jenevra turned to the men, all now standing at least waist deep in the water. “These uniforms,” she began, waving a gray tunic at them as Farid, having got the idea, carried on picking them up. “These uniforms, gentlemen, belong to the men of Shadow Flight. Now recently, I have noticed that none of you seem to want to follow my orders anymore, so I can only conclude that you no longer wish to be part of my Flight. You seem to prefer Captain Tessier’s orders.” Her eyes swept across the pond. “Ah, good, Captain Tessier’s here too. He’s probably got room for all of you in his Flight—and maybe one or two spare uniforms too. Well, I’m sure you’ll all find something to wear. It just won’t be one of my uniforms. Not unless you’re under my command.”

The Flight had begun to protest their loyalty to her and to Shadow Flight, but Jenevra held up an imperious hand. “Loyalty, gentlemen, is proven, not spoken. Any fool can mouth the words. I will have obedience. I realize that I don’t usually insist on running this Flight the way the other Flight Captains run theirs, but there will be no mistake in this. If you put these uniforms back on, and there is so much as a breath between an order and you jumping to it, you will find yourself shaking hands with Mister Theiss in the frigid realms of the hereafter. Am I making myself quite clear?”

As the Flight called their agreement, Captain Tessier, a little put out at being ignored, called out. “Captain Couressime?”

Turning politely, Jenevra answered. “Captain Tessier.” A slow intake of breath she hoped would slow the pounding in her chest as she looked at him. She had a tendency to think of him as much slighter of build than he really was, mainly because he spent so much time around huge men like Baran Wargentin. Unclothed Tessier was broad shouldered and slim-hipped, with well-defined muscles all over as far as she could see, dark hair running from his chest, down his taut stomach to the water level. Jenevra was desperately trying not to think about anything below the water.

Opening his arms and gesturing at the pond, Tessier took a couple of steps towards the princess. “Timing being everything in a well planned attack, it would appear that you have us at something of a disadvantage.”

A sly smile crossed Jenevra’s face, one eyebrow rising mockingly as she glanced pointedly to where the water was just covering his hips. “But it’s not much of a disadvantage now, Captain, is it?” she said. Baran, laughing loudly, squashed Tessier’s outrage by ducking him firmly under water.

“The offer is there, gentlemen,” she finished. “Any man wearing Shadow Flight uniform when he gets back to camp had better be ready to live, or die, by his decision.”

Farid dropped the clothes back on the ground, a proud glint in his dark eyes. Giving her one of his rare genuine smiles, his teeth gleamed against his tanned skin and he pressed his hands to his heart before extending them to her.

Thudding hooves interrupted them as one of Baran’s men pulled up on the right side of the pond. He had the princess’s black horse by the reins in one hand. “Captain Couressime!” he called. “Master Ki sent me to get you.”

The smile slid from Jenevra’s face. “Is he all right?” she called, heading towards him.

“He’s fine, Captain …” he broke off as he saw his Prince in the water. Quickly assessing the situation, he grinned broadly. “Your Highness?” he called to Baran. “Do you need help? Should we be rescuing you?”

Rolling his eyes, resigned to the ribbing he knew he’d have to endure from his men, Baran sighed. “No, Hugo, thank you. I don’t need rescuing. Our dear Princess was just having a word.”

Chuckling as Jenevra reached him and whispered something to him, Hugo continued. “Well, she’s only small, sir. I’m sure I could just throw her over my shoulder or in the pond.”

“That won’t be necessary, Hugo.”

“But you’ll be sure to tell Prince Conall all about it, won’t you, Hugo?” Jenevra prompted cheerfully. “Conall will just love this story. I may have to write to him myself, just to make sure he has all the details.”

“Jenevra Couressime!” Baran shouted. “You are in so much trouble when I get my clothes back on. One word of this to my brother and I’ll …”

But Jenevra had already turned her attention back to Hugo. “What did Ki-Nimh want me for?”

Hugo frowned, trying to remember the message exactly as Master Ki had said it. “He said you were to come at once. There’s what seems to be a Diruthian scouting party in the valley, but he said to tell you to deal with it straightaway … no sword.” Hugo looked puzzled. “It didn’t make too much sense to me but that’s what he said.”

“He definitely said I should deal with it?” Jenevra was already unbuckling the Spirit Sword from her waist as Farid reached her, and Hugo assured her that he had given her Ki-Nimh’s exact words. “If and when Sergeant Brogan puts Shadow Flight uniform back on, you can give this to him to hold please, Farid.” Pulling her twin swords from her shoulders, she gave them over to Farid’s care too.

“Captain …” Farid’s voice rose in concern as she swung easily up onto her horse.

“Can’t stay. Things to do,” she shouted, wheeling the stallion and thundering off down the valley.

By the time the men had dragged on their clothes over wet skin, and run back to where they had camped, the remainder of Tessier’s Flight and Baran’s Personal Guard had everything packed away, ready to move. Shadow Flight’s horses were saddled, waiting for their riders.

“Where’s she gone now?” Tessier called to his men as he ran up, flinging himself onto his horse; reaching down for the sword he carried in his saddle.

“We’ll be catching up with the Nimh’a in a short while, Captain,” Ki-Nimh’s voice cut across him. “I think you’ll find that if we just follow the road to Virat, she’ll meet us without any problem.” He motioned to Brogan to lead Shadow Flight out in the direction he was pointing.

Ordering his own squadron to follow, Tessier cantered up to the wagon Ki-Nimh was riding in. “The message you sent said there was a Diruthian patrol in the valley. We need to find her.”

Ki-Nimh impaled Tessier with the steely gaze that he usually reserved for his troublesome pupil. “Captain Tessier, the Nimh’a is perfectly capable of dealing with some rag-tag patrol. She has a task to complete, and she will rejoin us when she has done so. Please don’t interfere with something you have no understanding of.”

Unwilling to let it go so easily, Tessier argued. “But she’s alone. How many of them are in that patrol; do we even know that? And she’s hurt,” he lowered his voice, knowing that most of her Flight didn’t know how badly she’d been injured. “I won’t let her get hurt again, Kian.” Signaling to a small group of his men, Tessier turned his horse towards the forest; surprised and angry as Baran intercepted them, blocking their path. “Get out of my way, Baran.” Tessier’s eyes were flat. “I can’t let her get hurt again. I won’t.”

“You can’t get in the way of this, Blaise,” Baran’s tone held sympathy, but his drawn sword was telling his friend that there would be a limit to it. “Just trust Master Ki on this one. He knows she’s hurt. Possibly not quite how badly, but he wouldn’t send her out if he thought her chances were compromised from the start. The way the Order see it, you never know when you’ll have to fight again, even after an injury; so they don’t think much of it.” Baran turned to look down at the large expanse of woodland to the left of the road they were aiming for. “If you just go crashing in there, you’ll put her in more danger than she’s in now. And if you mess up a Master’s test for her—which is what I think this may be—she will never forgive you.”

Frustrated, Tessier waved his men back into position, glaring angrily across at Ki-Nimh. “I thought she was Imperial Protector now?” He said. “How can she be taking orders from Menzetti when she’s supposed to be working for Phillip? It doesn’t make sense.”

Baran settled his shoulders resignedly. He’d known Blaise since childhood, and he knew this mood. Few people did. Invariably good-humored; that lazy smile never far from his face even under stress, Tessier was rarely out of sorts with anyone. But once in a while, Baran knew, Tessier would get something in his head, and no-one would divert him from it. Baran remembered a time when they had been younger, about eight or nine years old, and Tessier had decided to climb a mountain near the Lorthian palace. It wasn’t a mountain the way Jenevra and Spider would think of one, but it had certainly looked that way to two young boys. Tessier had asked to climb it and been told that it was too dangerous, and forbidden to go anywhere near it. Over the next few weeks, he had brooded and sulked and brooded some more, until he just couldn’t stand it anymore and had sneaked out to climb it one night.

Baran had gone with him. He worried that his friend might get hurt and, after all, no one had actually forbidden him to go because he’d never asked. But he hadn’t wanted to climb very far when they reached it. The rock was cold and dark in the moonlight; Baran imagined all kinds of evil spirits just waiting to catch him in the shadows, and had backed out. Understanding, but unable to stop himself, Blaise had climbed the mountain. The going up was fine; it was coming back down again that began to give him problems. Suddenly, Blaise realized how high he was. The rock looked far steeper, and harder, when you looked down at it, and he lost his balance a number of times before finally falling into a deep fissure. The seven gods all had their arms around him that night and he landed on a shallow ledge part way down the chasm. Bruised and shaken he had stayed on the ledge for over a day; until a rescue party, brought out by Baran’s concern when his friend didn’t reappear, lowered a rope down to him. The scrapes, and even the beating he had received for disobeying orders, healed rapidly; but Tessier’s fear of heights never left him after that.

Baran had rarely been prouder of Tessier than when he had hung over the cliffs at the beach, desperately looking for Jenevra. He was the only one who knew how much courage, and love, that had taken. That was one of the reasons he was so sure of Blaise’s feelings for the princess; although he could equally see how Jenevra’s lack of experience with men would misread him. But Tessier wouldn’t give up now. Like the mountain, he would keep trying with the princess until he succeeded, or it killed him.

Riding alongside Tessier, Baran thought about his friend and the princess he loved. Contemplating their stubborn personalities, Blaise’s pattern of behavior with women and Jenevra’s limited understanding of men; he could see only problems ahead for the pair. True, it would probably be entertaining trouble for everyone near them, but Baran had a feeling Tessier and Jenevra weren’t going to have an easy time of it. Turning a chuckle rapidly into a cough as Blaise glared accusingly across at him, the Crown Prince of Lorthia settled back into his saddle, determined to enjoy the warmth left in the day, as they took the road leading into the forest.

Kian Menzetti had grown up in the region, and the forest north of Virat was well-known to him. Although still weak following his injuries at the hands of his fellow Master, he sat firmly upright on the seat of the wagon next to Laio, directing the straggling column of Imperial and Lorthian troops. The road to Mirizir lay on a fork halfway through the center of the forest, and would take them along the edge of the port of Virat: Ki-Nimh’s planned route. He was gratified to hear the men talking as they rode along, discussing Jenevra’s behavior that day. Their opinions were beginning to change, he noted with satisfaction; although he was sure the next few hours would only serve to clarify their understanding of what she was capable of. With luck, he mused sourly, it would also make that infernal Captain realize that he had no future with Jenevra. That there was no room in her for sentiment; despite Kian’s own mother, Graea, warning him that the young Princess was beginning to think there was more to life than the duty the Order had laid on her. Cracking his knuckles one by one, Kian smiled grimly as Laio winced next to him.

Ki-Nimh would have been rather disappointed if he could have read his pupil’s thoughts at that particular time. Having galloped to the edge of the forest, Jenevra took her horse under the spreading branches of baris oaks and maples at a more sedate pace, weaving steadily into the peaceful quiet. The huge trees blocked almost all of the sunlight, cooling the air around her immediately, with occasional dappled patches where their branches lifted higher. Breathing in the sweet scent of sap dripping from the sugar maples, Jenevra’s mood lightened considerably. Snapping several young shoots off a maple as she passed, she chewed on one as she rode, sticking a few more into her pocket for later. Walking her horse through deep leaf litter, the only sounds were the soft thud of hooves and the creaking of leather.

Much as she enjoyed being with her Flight, deep down Jenevra truly preferred the simple solitude of nature; the silence laced only with threads of light breezes setting the trees to whispering, the soft fluttering of birds’ wings, or the occasional stirring of an animal in the stillness. The tranquility rushed through the princess like a tonic, a serene smile easing the tension from her face: her lips twitching into a broad grin as she saw again the expression on Tessier’s face just before Baran had ducked him in the pond. Her eyes grew distant as the thoughts pulled her back to the incident, her mind dwelling on the image of the Captain standing dripping wet in the water; the tautly defined muscles running from his chest to his hips. Shaking herself, Jenevra slapped the back of her own hand. “Bad, very bad,” she muttered to herself, trying to focus on the deepening shadows as the woods thickened around her. Before she could collect her thoughts completely, a sudden swirl of breeze sent a shiver through the trees, a single leaf falling from a baris oak to land on her horse’s neck in front of her. The baris oak was one of her favorite trees, the intensity of its deep copper color had always appealed to her as a warming contrast to the rich greens worn by most trees during the summer. Now, twirling the broad leaf by its stem between her fingers, its attraction took on a new dimension as she contemplated that it was an almost perfect complement to the color of Tessier’s hair. “Oh, great Tore, what am I thinking?” Jenevra chided herself in a soft voice. “That insufferable man’s driving me crazy.” Stuffing the leaf, without thinking, into a pocket, she nudged her horse into a trot, deciding that the best way to keep her mind off Blaise Tessier was to find the scouting patrol and kill them.

The first three were easy. Riding as rear guard to the patrol, the three men were obviously not expecting trouble to find them in the form of a small person riding through the thick forest, miles from any help. Lulled by the stature of the rider, they drew their own horses to a stand, thinking it would at the very least be an excellent horse that they would acquire from the meeting. As the rider neared them, their eyes lit and they exchanged glances, realizing that the figure was, in fact, female.

Jenevra had spotted them quite some time before they noticed her following them. Slipping her jacket off, loosening her hair from its braid to catch it back simply with a ribbon, she wore her tunic over gray trousers, a light belt cinching her waist just to make certain her shape was apparent to them. Following them quite deliberately into a small clearing, Jenevra called out to them, asking if they could help her.

Hardly believing their luck, the men winked broadly at each other, one of them waving for her to join them. Sliding from their mounts, the men waited patiently for the young woman to reach them; their eyes widening and welcoming smiles wreathing their faces as they saw her clearly for the first time. The tallest of the three took hold of her horse’s bridle as she reached them. “Well now, missy, you seem to be a long ways from home with no-one to look after you. That could be dangerous, you know.” He gave her a mocking smile as the other men grinned.

“My thanks, sir,” Jenevra replied haltingly, as if embarrassed. “I am trying to find a place called Mirizir, but I seem to have lost the path.” She shrugged apologetically. “If you gentlemen could point me to the right road I’d be very grateful.”

“How grateful?” One of the other two, short and squat with a badly broken nose, leered up at her, one hand grasping her leg.

“Now, Carl,” interrupted the third man, pulling his comrade away. “You’ll frighten the young lady. And we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” He smiled reassuringly up at the princess, holding his hand up to her. “If you’d like to come take a look, we have a map. We can show you the right road on that.”

Slipping her feet from the stirrups, Jenevra looked gratefully down at him. Kicking both feet forward swiftly, she put two of the men onto the floor as she jumped out of the saddle, landing in front of Carl and sending the heel of her hand directly into his startled face, driving the cartilage in his nose up into his brain, killing him instantly. Without pausing she span to meet the second man with the same blow, this time to the center of his chest, sitting him heavily down on the forest floor where he tried, unsuccessfully, to breathe through the shards of ribs now puncturing his lungs; a bloody froth emerging from his mouth as he slowly keeled over.

The tallest man rose unsteadily to his feet, looking at his fellow assailants and then at her in undisguised horror. “You … you’re not lost.” He drew his sword, waving it between them.

“I know,” she said lightly, moving towards him as if she didn’t even see the sword. Ducking under it, she rushed the last few paces towards him, sweeping his legs from under him as she rolled under the blade. A knee to his groin rolled him into a ball, giving her the chance to slide her hands around his head, twisting his neck in a swift loud crack. Letting the body drop to the ground, she dusted herself off, and looked around the small clearing, hands on her hips. “Three down,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. Hauling the three men over their horses with rather more difficulty that it had taken to kill them, she tied them in place with their stirrup leathers, removing their swords and daggers and tying them together to the back of her own saddle. With the reins of all three in her hand, she led them through the forest in pursuit of the rest. She found them within an hour.

Not having heard from any of their rear guard for some time, they had decided to wait for them to catch up. Their puzzlement as they watched a young girl ride towards them towing three dead men behind her gave her enough time to take the first two men out with slamming blows to their jaws that snapped their necks instantaneously.

Still not quite believing what they were seeing, only about half of the remaining men drew any kind of weapon, convinced enough of their own strength that they simply didn’t think it would be necessary against one girl.

Jenevra didn’t pause. She knew instinctively that she could give them no time to think, to group or plan. Hauling herself from her horse by a large overhead branch, she swung down to meet them, feet first, knocking three of them sprawling. Landing on her feet she spun immediately to meet two swordsmen. Ducking again, she swept her leg round to take one man’s feet from under him, giving her the time she needed to grab the other man’s wrist, too close to him for his sword to be of any use. Snapping his wrist, she followed through bringing her hand up across his throat, crushing his larynx, leaving him to choke to death as she leaned swiftly out of the path of another blade, with it missing her throat by inches. Rolling backwards, she pushed over, landing back on her feet, flowing into a spinning kick that removed the sword threat, sending its wielder to the floor unconscious. Ducking again under another attack, Jenevra sent two more to the floor with hard kicks to the groin, smashing another man’s nose up into his brain as she twisted out of hands reaching for her. Jumping, she flew over an axe whirling at her head, sending out a side kick that punched a young soldier into a tree; death waiting for him in the unexpected form of a broken branch that pierced his eye all the way to the back of his head. The axe man swung again, forcing Jenevra to dive in under his reach to smash into his chest. He was a large man and the leather breastplate he wore took some of the impact, the blow incapacitating him rather than killing him: the princess did that herself, snapping his thick neck loudly.

There were four of them standing now—the first three she had knocked down and one man she had still to encounter—although Jenevra wasn’t naïve enough to discount the three still rolling on the floor in pain. Standing straight she watched them circle warily. They’d seen enough to make them cautious, although they were also angry at so many of their comrades being bested by a girl. Not willing to allow the odds to change, she took the time to back across the ground to where the two she’d kicked in the groin were still trying to get to their feet. In two swift moves, they were lying on the ground, necks broken like chickens, and Jenevra was running towards the four soldiers still on the attack.

The first swordsman was limping towards them also now, presenting her with five opponents. Pointing the tip of his sword directly at her, he spoke. “You’re going to regret this, bitch,” he gestured around at the dead. “You won’t die as quickly as any of them, though; but you’ll wish you had by the time we’ve all finished with you.” He brushed at a trickle of blood at the side of his mouth and spat into the undergrowth. “Come on, lads,” he looked around at the others. “Who wants to be first?”

Taking a long slow breath as the five charged towards her, Jenevra jumped straight up, grabbed the branch above her, swinging over it to land behind them. A slight smile on her face, she slammed the first two to turn around into each other, one impaling the other on his sword as they fell. Three of them were still coming for her. The man on the floor reached down to his side, pulled a knife and let it fly at her.

Focused on the three facing her, she missed the movement, until the knife grazed her left thigh, embedding itself lightly in the tree behind her. Without blinking she spun and kicked him solidly under the jaw, snapping his neck backwards.

Sensing an advantage at last, the man who’d spoken lunged towards her leg: at the same time that the last two pushed forward with their swords, causing the princess to stumble. Moving quickly, he smashed his fist into the side of her face, shouting to the others to pin her arms. Hand around her throat he dragged her to her feet, as she pulled against the two men holding her arms. “Now, we’ll see how brave you really are,” he sneered. He almost hesitated at the gleam appearing in her eyes, as her feet came up towards his face, snapping his jaw back; flipping back over the arms of the last two soldiers. Landing with one arm around each of their throats, bending them backwards, Jenevra snapped their necks before turning her attention back to the last man, trying to stand.

“Oh, I really don’t think so,” she said softly, pushing him back to the ground with her foot.

Sergeant Brogan was not happy. Not only was his Captain somewhere in the forest without any sort of guard, he was now absolutely convinced that he had missed something happening to her several days ago. He had watched carefully since his suspicions were first aroused on the day after the battle, when she had tried to fob him off about the new injuries. Finn Corrigan and Spider Baudoin hadn’t been able to hide the fact that they knew something that Prince Baran and Captain Tessier also knew. There had been too many meaningful glances and long looks exchanged by the four men, normally across the princess when she wasn’t looking, for it to be anything other than about her. Now, with Master Ki leading them towards Virat, Sergeant Brogan wanted nothing more than to have Jenevra back where she should be, at the head of Shadow Flight, safe, sound and, above all, exactly where he could keep an eye on her. It was with a very heartfelt sigh of relief that he watched the coal black horse emerge from under the low branches of coppery oaks a short distance ahead of them as the column neared the fork in the road that led to Virat and Mirizir; the princess apparently none the worse, waiting for them, leaning on the pommel of her saddle with one arm. “Captain,” he saluted her sharply, deep gray eyes looking with disquiet at splatters of blood on her clothes.

“It’s not mine,” she said quickly, noting his gaze. “It’s theirs.” She nodded back over her shoulder to a string of horses standing in the shadow of the trees.

Brogan’s eyebrows lifted enquiringly as he counted. “Sixteen?” His eyes met hers. “You just killed sixteen men? And none of that blood is yours?” He gave another sigh, tinged with disapproval as she grinned at him.

“It looks worse than it is, Sergeant. Broken noses tend to spurt a lot of blood.”

“I hope you’re not going to try to convince me that they died of broken noses, Captain,” Brogan signaled to a couple of the men to gather up the reins of the Diruthian horses. “What do you want us to do with them?”

Jenevra shrugged. “Hang them all from the trees as a warning, I think.”

It was her cool indifference that really chilled Brogan for the first time. He’d been around death in battle before, but this was different. The princess may well have killed the Diruthians in a fair fight—if you could call sixteen trained men against one girl fair—but no-one was usually quite so composed after this kind of fight. At the very least he expected some kind of wild excitement; the frenetic activity he’d marked before in men who’d survived overwhelming odds. Shadow Flight watched their Captain in silence, confronted with the same questions as their Sergeant.

Jenevra turned her horse to watch her mentor as Ki-Nimh dismounted from the wagon, strolling slowly along the line of dead men hanging over their horses. Ignoring Captain Tessier’s arrival with Baran, as Brogan swiftly reassured them that he didn’t think any of the blood was hers; she focused intently on Ki-Nimh.

Stopping at the eighth man, Ki-Nimh looked back at her. “I said no swords, didn’t I?”

“Not me, Ki-Nimh,” she answered. “His friend fell on him, pointy end first.”

“So you can’t claim this one?”

She frowned. “I was the one swinging his friend round into him at the time, so I thought it was alright … sort of by default.”

Ki-Nimh rolled his eyes, looking almost as disapproving as Brogan. “Temper, Nimh’a?” he asked cryptically, holding another man’s head up momentarily.

Chewing on the side of her lower lip, Jenevra nodded, avoiding his hawkish glare.

Stalking back towards her, his eyes took in the fact that she had pulled gloves on again despite the warmth of the late afternoon. “He has no face left, Nimh’a.”

“He annoyed me.” Her left hand clenched into a tight fist against her leg. Ignoring the flinty look he was giving her, she wheeled her horse around again, calling her Flight back to order, taking control again. “The Emperor wants people to know that bandits will be punished. String those men up, one from each tree, along the side of the road. As soon as we’re done, we’re heading to Virat for tonight. Tomorrow, we ride for Mirizir.” She cantered across to Baran and Tessier. “Why don’t you take your men ahead? We’ll catch up with you later.”

Before Tessier could open his mouth to object, Baran answered blandly for both of them that they would wait for her Flight; that having been Commander Rabenaldt’s original purpose in sending Tessier’s squadron along with Jenevra’s Flight.

With the exception of some of the younger recruits to Jenevra’s Flight, not too many of the men were particularly squeamish, but few were able to suppress a grimace as the last man Jenevra had killed was hoisted to swing beside his comrades among the trees.

As the Imperial Protector took her place at the head of the re-formed column she heard muttering among all the men, not just her own. Assured that they all took her far more seriously now than they had that morning, she set her heels to her horse and led them towards Virat at a steady canter, riding relaxed with the reins held negligently in her left hand, her right one resting on her leg. Only she knew that she was barely able to move it, having almost unconsciously beaten the bandit’s face to a bloody pulp.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Virat was a large port, with a surprisingly well managed harbor and docks. As a result the surrounding city was unlike many others, being clean, tidy and generally regarded as safe for most people. The city planners had been far-sighted when building new areas, with specific designations for mercantile activities and general housing for the inhabitants of the city. Inns, taverns and hotels were strictly regulated and there was even an area on a hillside overlooking the harbor where most of the pleasure houses could be found—keeping the rowdier, some would say less-desirable elements away from the populace. Streets were wide and cleaned on a regular basis, as was the harbor itself, eliminating a large contribution to the normal stench of a port. All in all, Virat could even be considered a pleasant seaside city, and Jenevra pulled the men into line at the city gates confident that they would be registered and on their way to lodgings with the Viratians’ usual efficient flair.

The Gatekeepers of Virat were the first line of security. No-one passed them without registering first, and the Imperial troops were no exception. Although highly deferential to the princess, Prince Baran and Captain Tessier, they would not allow anyone to enter the city until every last one of them was listed and assigned to rooms throughout the harbor area.

Shadow Flight was assigned to the best inn on the main street leading to the harbor. Rather nicer than soldiers were usually assigned to, but with an Imperial Princess vouching for them, the Emperor’s seal on her papers, and the Chancellor’s son in her entourage, the gatekeepers didn’t want to offend. The Officers and Lord Menzetti were assigned to the same inn, with their men distributed around in nearby hostelries, and in reasonably swift order they were all departing to their respective destinations, keen to rest, eat and drink.

Handing her horse over to Laio’s capable care, Jenevra slung her pack over her shoulder and followed Ki-Nimh into the inn; noting his subtle palming of the Order’s token to the innkeeper. Within moments they were shown to comfortable, airy rooms on the first floor.

Dropping her pack onto the floor, Jenevra opened the window, scanning the walls and buildings in the immediate vicinity for escape routes and accessibility. Satisfied with what she saw, she ran at the high bed, twisting as she jumped to land, sinking, into the thick feather mattress. Lying back with a soft, satisfied groan, she smiled slightly at herself. I must be getting soft. This feels really good.

Using one foot to hold the other, she kicked her boots off, letting them fall to the floor. She felt as though she had just closed her eyes when she heard a gentle tap on the door. “What?” She couldn’t even raise the energy to lift her head as the door opened.

“Princess?” Baran’s deep voice sounded almost apologetic.

“I’m asleep.”

“Kian wants to talk to you.”

“I’m not listening.” She stuck her fingers into her ears and closed her eyes again.

Baran walked across to the bed, waiting with his arms folded until she squinted one eye open again. “He wants to talk to you now,” he pulled her wrists gently to get her up. Seeing that she had no intention of moving, Baran decided to take more direct action and picked her up bodily, carrying her into Ki-Nimh’s room over his shoulder. Depositing her onto a wooden chair next to a small table, Baran sat on the opposite side of the table. Captain Tessier was also there, seated in a comfortable chair with a large glass in his hand already.

“I called the Captain and Prince Baran to join us because you said they knew about what happened the other night,” Ki-Nimh began. He pointed to a large bowl of streaming water on the table. “If I’m not mistaken we probably need to start by getting your hand in there for a while though, don’t we?” He ran one hand across his long chin as she nodded ruefully.

Baran held his hand out for hers.

“I can do it myself,” she objected.

“Just give it here, Jenevra, and stop arguing with everything will you?” Baran was uncharacteristically grumpy. Peeling the glove off carefully, Baran swore under his breath. Her hand was swollen, cut and bruised like she’d been pounding on a rock for hours, small splinters of bone visible in two or three places. Using a small knife to remove the bone fragments, which he assumed were from the soldier’s face, Baran pushed her hand into the hot water.

Ignoring him, Jenevra turned to Ki-Nimh. “Can we please just get on with this? I was hoping to sleep some time soon.”

“It will take as long as it takes, Nimh’a.” Ki-Nimh was at his most infuriating; hands folded up inside his sleeves, a pained patient look on his face.

It felt just like being back on the Island, except Misha wasn’t beside her. Even Tessier’s glance seemed cold and distant now. Jenevra sighed.

“ … So, that brings us up to the point where you explain why you dared to take a Master’s sword into your possession, Nimh’a.” Ki-Nimh’s voice was cold again as they entered their second hour of talking through recent events. The sun was finally dying, filling the room with that deep honeyed glow that only comes from a summer sunset.

“Misha and I are … were … equal. Well, pretty much anyway.” Jenevra began, wandering back and forth in front of the fireplace, her hand washed and bandaged. “He hadn’t taken part in the battle, so I knew he would be less tired than me.”

“That’s no excuse, Nimh’a.” Ki-Nimh said.

Exasperated, Jenevra began pacing again, until Ki-Nimh caught her sleeve. “Calmly!” He ordered.

Scowling, she continued, twisting the ends of her sleeves between her fingers. “I know I don’t often get tired, as such. But the whole battle rush thing; you know what I mean. Misha didn’t have that going on. I knew he’d have the edge on that count. I had to have something that would even it back up … maybe even give me an advantage. You were hurt; and I’d just used the talisman to give you a bit of a boost of energy which sort of drained me a bit more. And that was weird too,” she broke off again, looking at her mentor puzzled. “I mean, how did I do that? I have no idea, it just happened. Is that normal?” She waved her hands, dismissing it as unimportant for the time being, missing a flash of sorrow and concern deep in Ki-Nimh’s eyes.

“So, anyway, I figured that you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed it. I was using it to fulfill an Oath, and I made all the proper prayers and things over it before I took it, and when I put it back.”

Ki-Nimh grunted, whether in approval or not she couldn’t tell.

“It was the only thing I could think of Ki-Nimh. Seeing me with a Master’s sword might have placed a doubt in Misha’s mind; given me almost an equal chance.”

“It didn’t look very equal from where we were standing—not when he sliced you across the front: or when he stuck that sword through your side,” Blaise noted dryly.

As Jenevra explained the dim remembrance she had of the fight on the beach, Baran and Kian’s expressions changed. “You heard the song of the sword?” Baran breathed reverently. “Do you know how rare that is?”

“It was really peculiar. Every stroke created a sound.” She shrugged. “It’s hard to explain really. I couldn’t hear anything else; not the sea, not the weather. Even when Misha got that cut in, I sort of heard it rather than felt it.”

“So how did Misha manage to get close enough to put his sword through you?” Ki-Nimh’s tone was cynical. “Did the song of the sword distract you and not him?”

She shook her head. “No, Ki-Nimh. I let him.”

“What?” Blaise slammed his cup down on the table. “You mean that was deliberate? You could have been killed!”

“I’m perfectly aware of that, thank you,” Jenevra said. “But he’d already cut me once. He was getting stronger and I wasn’t. The only way to win was to let him think he had a winning stroke.”

“Sacrificing a piece for the game, Nimh’a? Glad to see the chess lessons weren’t wasted.” Ki-Nimh almost smiled.

“I knew where his sword was aiming. I made sure I turned so it would enter where it could do least damage. Once his sword was trapped he knew he’d made a mistake—a really basic one—and he just took too long to think about his options. That’s when I killed him. It was the way it had to be. I didn’t know you were watching …” she smiled genuinely at Blaise, for the first time in days. “ … or worrying about me.”

Baran cleared his throat noisily, and took up the rest of the tale from what they had seen; describing the state Jenevra had been in rather vividly, hoping that it might soften the stony look on Kian Menzetti’s face as he watched his pupil.

“Tell me about the talisman again,” Kian prompted Jenevra softly. “Everything you can remember.”

Her smile fading again, Jenevra spoke quietly with Ki-Nimh, sitting at his feet, telling him everything she had felt during that day; from the light throbbing earlier in the afternoon to the violent pain that had torn through her as she killed Misha. She told him about the energy she had tried to impart, and the strange promptings she had felt to follow the directions the talisman was infusing her with. “Is it the talisman, Ki-Nimh?” she asked him. “I didn’t think it worked that way.”

During the telling Kian had looked unutterably saddened; but by the time Jenevra looked up into his face with her questions, his usual impassive mask was back in place. “This pain, when you killed Misha. Where did you feel it?”

Jenevra looked distant. “Right through me, Ki-Nimh, everywhere; like something was being torn apart inside.”

“It was,” Blaise interrupted. “You had a sword through you.”

Kian glared at him, snapping his fingers in front of Jenevra’s face to focus her back on him rather than responding to Captain Tessier. “Is it still torn, Nimh’a, or has it healed now? What can you feel from the talisman now?”

She shook her head, tapping her bandaged fist against her chest. “It isn’t healed. I can feel it. Is it because I killed another bearer? But I can feel the talisman again—like I could at first. D’you think it’s because I’m the only bearer left? Maybe what I’m feeling now is just you and me—maybe even Alvar or Oran—because I’m the only one who can?” She raised eyes full of sorrow to him.

“I don’t know, Nimh’a.” Kian lied, sighing heavily, the planes and contours of his angular face seeming etched in stone. He laid his hand gently on her head. “We’ll figure it out, child. Go to bed.”

Startled as much by the unusual form of address as by the sudden dismissal, Jenevra didn’t even argue, leaving the room quietly for her own. Her mind was too full to allow any thought of sleeping again yet, and she quickly changed out of the blood-stained shirt and trousers into clean, if scruffy, clothes; sliding out through the open window and dropping easily to the ground. Stopping in at the barn shared between several of the buildings nearby, she checked on the condition of their horses with Laio. Rubbing her own horses’ noses, and feeding them both carrots, she borrowed a spare pair of leather gloves from Laio. He was young enough that his gloves were just slightly too big, which allowed her room to hide the bandages without it being too noticeable. As they walked out of the barn together, they saw Sergeant Brogan coming out from another inn two buildings away to check that the young stable-lad was going to come in and eat.

Pulling a baggy old jacket she found in the barn on over her re-tied braid, hiding it from view, Jenevra pulled strands of hair out around her face and headed down to the harbor itself; sitting behind a large stack of lobster pots with her legs dangling over the edge. The evening was darkening from the dusty lavender of twilight into the cooler clear skies of night. The first stars were beginning to blink sleepily between the shut eyes of the twin moons just beginning to wax. Jenevra watched the bustle of the harbor slow and quiet from the rhythmic chanting of the freight carriers and loaders, to the low laughter of men leaving their ships for an evening’s entertainment ashore. A large ship to her left seemed more raucous than most; one voice booming out over all the others. If it was at all possible, she thought, this particular man might even give Admiral Massili some serious competition. There was something vaguely familiar about the ship, something that tugged at the princess’s memory, but she couldn’t quite place it.

The loud voiced man she was soon able to identify as the ship’s Captain by the calls of his men, and she watched, amused, as he left his ship in the company of several of them, apparently heading for a night’s entertainment in the town. Their taunting shouts to their shipmates back on board rang around the harbor, as the princess leaned further down amongst the lobster pots so as not to attract their attention on their way past where she was sitting. Waiting several minutes, she rose to her feet and followed after them; not wanting to run into them, but needing to head in that general direction. A smile crossed her face as she was joined by two of Baran’s men: Hugo, the man who had brought her Ki-Nimh’s message earlier, and Karel, an evil looking man missing one eye but with a disposition gentle enough to rival Bernardo, and Jann Crevaux, Tessier’s artistically inclined Senior Lieutenant. The three men claimed to be looking for their commanding officers and refused to let her wander the harbor-side streets alone.

“Although, Captain, you do look as though you fit right in,” Jann Crevaux teased. Always immaculately turned out, he was totally perplexed by the princess’s comfort in ordinary, even scruffy clothing; and her current ensemble of battered trousers, scuffed muddy boots and a jacket at least two sizes too big held together by an old leather belt just baffled him. He’d seen her in her uniform and, while he wasn’t sure he approved even of that, at least it looked tidy. With her hair falling out around a rather grubby face, she looked like some young ruffian or pickpocket, not an Imperial Officer.

Skipping a few steps ahead of them and turning to walk backwards, facing them, she grinned. “I’m in disguise, Lieutenant. You’re not supposed to recognize me.”

“You don’t miss Salanova at all, do you, Captain? I mean, you really love all of … this.” Crevaux gestured around the harbor.

“I wouldn’t change a thing.” With another sudden skip, she darted to one side, into a small dark alleyway leading away from the harbor. Running as fast as she could along the narrow street she turned again and again, into a small warren of alleys where some of the poorest people in Virat lived. Despite the best efforts of the Virat Town Council and their efforts to keep the town safe, this was where all information in Virat ended up; bought, sold, traded, or given up at the point of a blade. This was where she needed to be. Small coins in a succession of hands brought her eventually to the man who knew what she wanted to know. Satisfied with her trade, the princess slipped swiftly along the streets again, just another slight shadow in the darkness among so many others. Emerging on the south side of the harbor, she looked across the bay to the hillside in the northern part of the city, and her next destination. Large houses lined the winding route leading from the harbor, brightly colored banners and lanterns giving the whole area a festive look. The last house consisted of many wooden terraces and balconies facing towards the sea; red banners fluttering in the strong breeze that came with the turn of the tide; large paper lanterns swinging wildly, throwing their light in flickering patches as befitted the name of the place—the House of Dancing Shadows.

Whistling to a young boy hanging around the harbor begging, she gave him a coin and a token, with instructions on where her message was to be delivered. The promise of another coin on his return ensured safe delivery; it was probably more than he could have hoped to earn the entire night. Turning to the tavern she knew was behind her, she was greeted by five men sitting around an outside table, beaming broadly at her, and Captain Tessier looking as if he’d just swallowed five-day-old fish.

“What are you doing down here?” Baran was lounging against a low wall, patting the bench next to him. He’d had enough beer by now to find her amusing again. “You really shouldn’t be wandering around on your own, you know. ‘S’ dangerous.”

“I think I’m probably safe enough, Baran,” she retorted, leaning back next to him, one leg up on the bench, her arm hooked comfortably around her knee. “At least I’m still sober enough to know where I am.” Turning to Tessier she tilted her head, frowning slightly at him. “You’re not still sulking about the pond are you?”

“Sulking? After being completely humiliated in front of your entire Flight? Oh, no, Your Highness, why on earth would I be sulking about that?” Tessier snapped. “And what exactly is so funny?”

Jenevra’s lips were folded tightly as she tried not to laugh, but it just slipped out. “You’ve been embarrassing me for days now, in front of everyone. It’s not my fault you can’t take it when it’s dished back to you.” Reaching across Baran, she tapped Tessier on the nose with the tip of her index finger. “Did you know that when you’re angry your moustache goes even straighter; and your nose goes pointier?”

Interrupting Tessier’s response and the other four’s laughter, the innkeeper arrived with foaming pitchers of good dark ale, and a platter full of roasted meat, reminding them that women were available in the pleasure houses of the north shore. Remembering the princess’s presence at that point, the five men looked at her, torn between guilt and embarrassment: startled to find she was no longer there with them, but was on the far side of the street, swinging up onto a horse that had just arrived in the care of a tall young man with a flowing black pony tail tied high on his head. The princess was swathing herself in a deep blue, sleeved mantle with a cresting wave outlined in white on the shoulder, pulling the hood well down over her face.

“Where d’you think you’re going now?” Tessier bellowed.

Trotting across to them, Jenevra leaned her forearm on the saddle-horn, her face hidden in the hood, but wicked amusement in her voice. “I’ve noticed a distinct gap in my training, so I’m just going to go remedy that. Obviously I would have asked you to help Captain, but you don’t really seem to be in the mood.” Wheeling the horse around, she took off at a canter along the road to the pleasure district.

Unable to make his mind focus on anything else, Tessier pointed up the hill. “Where is that wretched girl going now? You know, I didn’t sign up to be a damn bodyguard.”

“I doubt you’ll be called on for that,” Baran said. “But the horse had the livery of the House of Dancing Shadows. One of the best pleasure houses in Virat, and that’s saying something.” A puzzled look crossed his face as if he’d suddenly realized what he was saying. He opened his mouth several times, but nothing came out.

“She’s gone to a brothel?” Captain Tessier’s voice raised by at least an octave, his mind having immediately put together his own offer of flirting lessons and the princess’s disappearing to this place to fill out her training. Making strangely unintelligible noises, he grabbed his sword from the bench, slammed a handful of coins onto the table, and hustled them all out onto the street. “Come on, come on,” he chivvied them along impatiently; trying not to hear echoes of Commander Rabenaldt’s voice tearing him apart for allowing an Imperial Princess into a brothel.

The owner of the Dancing Shadows welcomed the large group effusively, clapping immediately for enough girls to attend to all of them. Apologizing profusely, he asked them if they would mind waiting briefly while he prepared a room big enough for them, enquiring if they would all be requiring baths.

Baran, having sobered up slightly with shock, asked if the top floor suite was available as he’d heard the view of the bay was magnificent.

“Unparalleled, sir,” the owner had agreed. “But sadly, it is already occupied.” In an effort to appease his imperially connected guests as they waited, he offered iced juices or spirits, and a rarely offered opportunity to watch a private training session. “We have some fine warriors here, gentlemen, and a fine facility for training. Many join us here just for the chance to meet each other in training and competition. Two of our finest past students are practicing now. If you would care to, I can arrange for you to watch discreetly from a balcony?”

Intrigued, they had agreed. It was an unusual brothel indeed that was also a training ground for warriors. Leaning on the wooden railings around the balcony they looked down on a huge room, the height of the entire building. The floor was covered with matting, deadening the sound of the combatants’ feet. Large screens had been opened along one edge to let the cool night air in from the inner courtyard, with the soft sound of waterfalls rippling through the noise of combat.

Two figures, dressed identically in wide dark blue pants, dark visored helmets, and padded breastplates, were fighting with what seemed to be split bamboo poles: which was just as well given that they didn’t seem to be pulling any of their strokes. If they’d been using swords someone would be dead.

Watching them, Tessier thought he spotted some familiar moves: moves he’d seen Jenevra make against Mikhail Dhorani. Closing his eyes and breathing a prayer of thanks, he began to relax, realizing that, yet again, she’d baited him and he’d fallen for it. Revenge would have to be his, he decided.

The men watched the whole match, applauding quietly at the end of it as the two combatants removed their head guards and visors, bowing respectfully to each other.

“Oi, Captain Couressime!” Tessier shouted down at her. “Up here, when you’re finished.”

Fortunately, Captain Tessier couldn’t see the blazing fury that lit Jenevra’s eyes at this interruption. Ignoring him totally, she removed the heavy glove from her left hand, and ran to the back of the room with her opponent, both of them selecting long, bladed poles from a rack of weapons.

“Oi!”

“Someone appears to be trying to attract your attention, Nimh’a.” Raiden’s head jerked briefly towards the balcony, his black hair swinging, as he raised the pole above his head.

“Ignore him,” she muttered, hoisting her bladed pole in response.

Beginning a series of moves laid down by centuries of trained warriors, they traveled swiftly around the matted floor, blades passing close to legs, necks and heads, but never making contact. Each form they followed was marginally faster than the one preceding it, until the poles were swinging almost too quickly for the men on the balcony to follow. The final move involved both combatants pulling their blades from one side of them to another with the poles swinging in huge circles, almost like figure eights. The circles grew faster and faster, drawing the watching men to hang over the balcony’s edge breathless; unable to see how either of them hadn’t lost a hand or foot with the spinning deadly weapons. With a loud sharp cry the poles suddenly hit the ground, both warriors finishing low. Jenevra’s pole was on top. Barely hesitating, they moved swiftly back to face each other, bowing briefly in respect for the contest. Turning to face under the balcony, they both bowed again, this time more deeply.

Still amazed by what they’d just seen, the men on the balcony muttered among themselves, intrigued to see an old man shuffle out onto the floor, walking with the aid of a cane: utterly astounded when they saw Jenevra sink to one knee in front of him, her arm laid across her right knee and head bowed.

Oran-Nimh passed in front of her, silently; pacing slowly behind them both.

Risking a glance under her lashes, Jenevra peeked across at Raiden, in an identical position, catching his glance to her. He shrugged slightly, the barest flicker of movement, but not small enough to escape Oran’s ancient eyes. Years of training acolytes on the Island had given him almost a sixth sense when it came to disrespect; and Raiden, although never trained on the Island, just here in Virat, found Oran’s cane descending across his back in short order. Jenevra winced. She remembered that feeling all too well.

“You are dismissed,” Oran leaned over Raiden. “Do not come into my presence again until you have perfected your flaws.”

Jumping to his feet, bowing deeply again, Raiden left the floor at a run, turning as he reached the screens with a sympathetic look back at the young girl still waiting for Oran’s judgment.

“On your feet, Nimh’a,” Oran nudged her with his cane. “Have you forgotten everything I taught you?” He shouted as she stood silently, the bladed pole held at her side. “The footwork, Nimh’a; what happened to it?” He slapped at her calves with his cane. “And this …” His voice rose again as he tapped at her right hand, still encased in its heavy gauntlet. “How can you expect to control the naginata without being able to feel it?” Shaking his head, with its wisps of white hair pulled back into a thin braid, he faced her, nose to nose. Deflating marginally, he took a pace backwards, holding the cane behind his back with both hands. “Ki-Nimh sent word of what happened. He says you had to execute Mikhail?”

Biting her lip, Jenevra nodded confirmation.

Oran turned towards the open screens, facing the courtyard. “Put your weapon up, Nimh’a. There is something we must talk about. And let me see that hand.”

Confident that the display was over, the owner of the Dancing Shadows, a tall, pug-nosed man called Gethin, advised the Imperial Officers, Baran and his men, that their baths, rooms and women were all ready. The men were leaving the balcony when a clear voice halted them in their tracks, pulling them back to hang over the balcony in disbelief.

“Captain Couressime,” Tessier’s voice called out loudly. “Don’t you think it time you matched another Imperial Officer?”

“Tore’s balls and beard!” Baran flung himself through the door, hurtling down the stairs as fast as he could to try to halt his brother-in-law’s utter stupidity. Concerned by his reaction to Tessier’s challenge, Hugo, Karl and Crevaux followed him.

Tessier was walking out onto the floor below, having left his boots and jacket at the door. He drew his sword as he reached the center. “Well, Captain?”

“I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Jenevra said quietly, from Oran’s side, where he was helping her to unfasten the padded leather breastplate she’d been wearing.

“Really?” Tessier almost sneered, but there was real anger in his eyes. “Well, I do.” He began pacing around, waving his sword. “I want to know how you managed to kill sixteen grown men, Captain. I want to know how you appear to have done it without using a sword. I want to know what it is you think you can do that makes you so damn blasé with your life.” He glared at her, adding in a dangerously soft voice, “And I want to know now.”

“Captain, I …” Jenevra closed her eyes, willing him not to do this.

“Don’t tell me no, Captain!” Tessier snapped. “Not after today.”

Baran and the others appeared in the doorway. “Don’t be an idiot, Blaise,” Baran warned, catching the puzzled weariness in Jenevra’s face. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Ah, more of them,” Oran interjected, cheerily. “It’s still not quite a fair fight, Nimh’a. There are only five of them: but if you let them keep their swords I suppose it’s as good as we can do—if you’re going to insist on this?” He looked at Tessier.

“I am.”

“Oran-Nimh …” Jenevra’s shoulders sagged.

The old man, gazed steadily at her. “Just try not to hurt them too much, Nimh’a.” He beckoned the four men standing at the door into the room. “It will be good for you all,” he assured them, walking to the side of the room under the balcony once more, before waving for them to begin.

Rubbing at her nose with her unbound hand, Jenevra moved to the center of the mats in a whisper of dark silk, looking apologetically at the new arrivals. The sweat stained robe uncovered by the removal of the breastplate also had the outline of a single cresting wave outlined in white on sleeve and back. “This is not my choice,” she said. “Just remember that. I don’t want to do this.” She stood calmly as Tessier raised his sword to the side. The others fanned out in a circle, hesitantly drawing their swords too.

“Whenever you’re ready gentlemen,” Oran called.

Tessier was first, letting out an angry cry as he brought his sword down towards the princess.

Sliding swiftly sideways, Jenevra moved inside his reach, bringing her hand down sharply on the nerve in his wrist, sending his sword spinning from dead fingers. The same hand rose to catch him under the chin: his own momentum putting him on the floor.

Amused and intrigued, Karl and Hugo joined in, coming at her from opposite sides. Ducking under their blades, Jenevra span a quick crouching circle, taking their legs from under them, before turning to meet Jann Crevaux’s surprise attack that wasn’t.

With four of them sitting on the floor looking startled, Jenevra met Baran’s eyes. Sensing in his grin something she had suspected for some time—that he had some familiarity with the Order’s training methods—she shifted her stance as he came towards her. Holding his attack off, but unable to put him on the floor as easily as she had the others, she became aware of the other men back on their feet again and closing in. Moving her technique higher, she kicked both Crevaux and Hugo in the head with a spinning butterfly kick, leaving her clear to move out of the circle, almost forcing them to face her in a line. Watching them regroup a strange lassitude began to take hold of her. The throbbing of the talisman began crashing through her head again, and the men she faced seemed to be moving through treacle they were so slow.

Turning sideways, she flexed into a solid stance, calling them on with her left hand; the deep pulse of the talisman almost robbing her of sight as she launched towards them, barely conscious of her movements. In a matter of seconds, they were all falling through the air like leaves caught up in a whirlwind, landing heavily on the mats. As they tried to rise they were met by hands or feet until, as Jenevra sent her left palm, fingertips tightly angled, towards Tessier’s heart, Oran’s cane slammed down onto her wrist, deadening it, at the same time as he shouted the Order’s command for immediate halt.

Oran’s hand pressed hard against her chest, holding her back until her vision cleared. Blinking hard, rubbing her eyes, Jenevra looked up into the old man’s gaze, then around at the others. Confronted by a couple of bloody noses, cut lips and five flushed faces, she knew she hadn’t heard the end of this. Sinking to kneel on the floor, she refused to look at any of them as Oran ushered them all out into the care of Gethin and his establishment.

Oran placed a hand on her shoulder. “This has happened before, hasn’t it, Nimh’a?” Clarifying, he added, “Losing control like that … it’s happened before?”

“This afternoon,” she confirmed. “Ki-Nimh sent me after a Diruthian patrol, muto,” she referred to the style of unarmed fighting against an armed opponent. “It was the last man when I lost it, and did this.” Unwrapping her right hand, she placed it on her knee.

Grimacing, Oran sent for a small bucket of crushed ice, carefully sliding her hand into it when it arrived, and pushing the ice chips around to cover her hand entirely. “You know why this is happening, don’t you?”

“No,” she said softly. “I thought maybe I was just angry this afternoon, but now … I don’t know.” She stood up, holding the ice bucket in the crook of her left elbow with her right hand still in it, and walked to the open screens, gazing out onto the peaceful courtyard. Leaning her head against the wooden frame, she sighed. “This is turning into the longest day of my life, Oran-Nimh.”

“Longer than the day I had you hold the water buckets?” He asked smiling gently, thinking back to one of the punishments he’d had to mete out to his most difficult pupil: a technique she had revised for Will Theiss using horseshoes. “Come, Nimh’a, walk with me. There are things you need to know.” Taking her arm, he walked her out into the cool air of the courtyard, his soft voice and the tinkling chimes of wind bells almost taking her back to her time on the Island; the smell of bamboo and water bringing a temporary peace to the turmoil in her mind.

Knowing his information would focus her once more on her purpose, and believing it unlikely he would see her again in this life, Oran-Nimh bowed as deeply to Jenevra as she did to him when he released her back into Raiden’s care. Taking her face between his hands the old man had looked deep into the troubled blue eyes. “I know this was hard to hear, Nimh’a.” he said. “It changes everything we all thought we knew. But you can do this.” He shook his head slightly as she began to protest. “There is no choice, Nimh’a, you know that. You have the strength. Dai-Nimh knew what he was doing when he gave you the talisman; knew what it might mean. Personally,” here a smile lit his eyes. “I think he rather hoped it would be you. He was very proud of you, Nimh’a. You were like his own child, you know.”

Biting down hard on the inside of her lip again, Jenevra bowed deeply one last time to her old teacher. With her hand still stuffed into the bucket of ice, she padded slowly through the house alone, along hallways of dimly lit rooms closed in by wood and paper screens behind which muffled laughter, or the occasional splash of bath water could be heard. Walking up through four floors, along wooden stairways smelling of wax and sandalwood, Jenevra mentally adjusted her plans.

On the fourth floor, a large room was noisily occupied. Recognizing Hugo’s loud voice, Jenevra hesitated, glancing at the sliding screen. Trying to decide whether or not she should disturb them, she leaned against the wall; hearing a rustle of bedclothes and a woman’s soft voice from the room next to it.

“That’s never happened before. You’d better try again.” Captain Tessier’s voice came clearly through the screen in the quiet of the night and Jenevra gasped, jumping away from the wall as if it had scorched her. Before the princess could move, Jann Crevaux slid the door open in front of her. Wrapped in one of the black house robes, obviously freshly bathed, he stopped short as he saw her startled expression. “Your Highness,” he greeted her warily. “Are you alright?” He gave a quick, almost embarrassed glance back over his shoulder to the corner of the room, before turning to face her again. “I heard there’s a painting master here too,” he gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I thought I’d go and find him.”

“I came to apologize,” she said, looking around the room at Hugo, Karl and Baran. “You too, Lieutenant,” she smiled sadly at Crevaux who, for the first time was close enough to her to look clearly into her eyes, and finally saw past the grimy, sweat-streaked face, past the straggling hanks of hair, past the wildness, to the young girl trapped in a world she was made for, but hadn’t chosen.

Touched by her lonely sadness, Crevaux began to understand something of the complicated need his Captain felt for her, and smiled. “No need for apology, Captain. We’re all big boys now. We can choose our fights if we want to.”

Baran, languishing under the kneading hands of two skilled masseurs, raised his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he advised. “You told him you didn’t want to fight, and I told him it was a stupid idea too.” Peering more closely at her he added, “What’s happened? You haven’t been training down there all this time have you?”

Flexing her hand in the crushed ice, Jenevra looked down into the bucket. “No, I’ve been talking with Oran-Nimh.”

“Not good news, I take it?”

“Let’s just say I’ve had better days, Baran.”

Baran was just reiterating that Tessier had brought it on himself, when the screen in the far corner of the room slid open and Tessier stalked into the room fastening soft brown trousers, a copper colored robe flaring out behind him. His hair was disheveled, and his mood didn’t seem to have improved since the fight; a dark scowl on his face. Catching sight of the princess in the doorway he stopped dead in his tracks, guilt rising in his eyes as he turned to try to close the screen behind him before Jenevra could see the young woman there. Too late. The ebony haired courtesan emerged from the sleeping room, her robe hanging around her waist; sliding her arms around Tessier, trying to pull him back into the room. Cursing, and pushing her hands away, Tessier froze as he saw Jenevra’s face.

“Much better days,” she muttered bitterly, slamming the screen shut.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

In a large suite occupying the entire top floor of the House of Dancing shadows, dismissing the maids and sinking deeper up to her chin in a huge, round cedar tub of hot water, Jenevra finally felt a little of the tension leave her. The marks on her body were still vividly clear, although the herbs and oils in the bath seemed to be helping with the soreness and stiffness just a little. The cuts on her hands and feet were far less angry-looking thanks to Wynn’s herbs, other than her right hand which she periodically placed back into the bowl of ice sitting on the steps of the tub. Between the finger and thumb of her left hand she was idling twirling the stem of the Baris oak leaf she’d collected in the forest, watching the colors in it as it moved, and wondering how she could feel so angry with Tessier. After all, she reasoned, she had made sure he understood that she wasn’t interested in him; she’d told him that on several occasions now, and she’d even fought him. Why shouldn’t he go amuse himself with a whore if that was what he wanted?

Closing her eyes and pulling her arms down under the water, leaving the leaf to float on the surface, she tried to put it out of her mind. Contemplating what Oran-Nimh had told her, she knew she couldn’t leave Virat with her Flight; she couldn’t risk going to Mirizir to see Graea. Sifting through her options, she began to put plans together, uncertain why tension kept cramping her stomach as the vision of the woman sliding her arms around Captain Tessier refused to leave her.

Raiden picked a deep cornflower blue silk robe up from the frame where it hung over smoldering incense, and slid it over her shoulders. The thick silk shimmered in the dim starlight, shining waves wrought in silver and pearl threads adorned the hem, sweeping up the back of the robe in a single cresting wave. Lifting her hair out, he twisted it into a roll, securing it simply with one slim stick, while she fastened the braided ties that held the front of the robe closed.

Opening a smaller screen, Raiden hung a small lantern on a pole, casting its dim glow onto a narrow pathway leading further up the dark rock of the hillside to a solitary maple tree beaten almost horizontal by onshore breezes. Silently, he led the way along the path with a second lantern, Jenevra following him. One of the tree’s lower limbs provided a hook for the lamp, while several large silk cushions had been placed on the ground below it; the lamplight flickering amongst the coppery leaves making the tree look as though it was on fire. Settling Jenevra onto the cushions, Raiden bowed, promising to come back within the hour, and left her to her thoughts.

Focusing deeply on meditating, Jenevra let the wind play through her mind, the sound of leaves rustling taking her back to the whispering bamboo groves of the Island. Slowly sinking into the deeper state, she reached for the visions this time, desperately hoping to contradict Oran-Nimh’s information. The very act of trying to see the visions rather than pushing them away, seemed to bring them with a clarity she’d never experienced before; the misty veil that always shrouded the figures was gone, leaving them as crisp and clear as if they were standing before her in full daylight. With an anguished, stifled, groan, Jenevra recognized Jai-Nimh’s training partner, confirming her need to leave Virat that night and alone.

Her head drooping, and hands still loosely folded on her lap, Jenevra sank into the nightmare before she could pull away; she had left herself too open and was too tired to fight it even though she wasn’t fully asleep. The faces appeared in their usual manner, figures walking towards her across a vast plain of slaughter, crying her name in hatred, weeping over the bodies of their dead. Feeling harsh tightness pressing against her chest, Jenevra struggled to breathe against the weight of grief surrounding her. As usual, her gaze then turned to the body she held cradled within her own arms. Raik’s face gave way to Ki-Nimh’s, to Stephan’s and Richard’s; face after face of people she knew and loved, each one dead, and she knew it was her fault that they lay bereft of life in her grasp. Christiana’s face changed into Arrilia Neilla’s, into members of her Flight and then into Tessier’s. Jenevra gasped aloud as a spear of pain shot through her at Blaise lying lifeless; the gasp choking as the face changed again.

Waking from the trance abruptly, she jumped to her feet, holding her hands over her face, trying to slow her breathing enough to actually take a deep breath. Now she knew there would be no return from this journey. The death she had been fighting against seeing all these years was her own.

Tessier was still angry. Several jugs of iced wine hadn’t helped his temper, and the spirits he had started on hadn’t taken effect yet. The more he thought about the day, the tighter his jaw clenched. Everything that could go wrong with the princess had. From her cutting off his air at lunchtime, the disparaging remarks in the pond, her solo venture into the forest that could so easily have ended with her raped, dead, or both: then the conversation with Kian back at the inn where, just for a moment, she had looked at him with real warmth, and what had he done? Cut her dead with a look as cold as any she’d ever given him. Tessier shook his head, pouring another large glass of whatever the burning liquid was that they’d brought for them. All he wanted was for her to want him, to need him; Gods above, even to love him if that was possible. So you challenge her to a fight, he mocked himself bitterly. Knowing she’s hurt and exhausted, you just have to prove what a man you are by going five on one—and losing! And then, the woman. How could you? Idiot! Slouching across to the balcony, Tessier stood watching the waves crashing on the black rocks far below them. Cup in one hand, he leaned negligently on the rail, the coppery robe flying loosely as the wind picked up.

“The tides are crossing,” a new voice said, behind him. “An ill-omened time.”

Glancing quickly at the newcomer, Tessier recognized the young man Jenevra had fought earlier that evening. Long black hair caught up at the top of his head, flowed down past his shoulders, which were sharply defined by muscle. Tanned and fit, the man stepped out onto the balcony next to Tessier, bowing his head slightly in greeting. “Raiden,” he said, holding out a hand.

Gripping it, Tessier responded, nodding towards the loud sound of snoring as he did. “And that,” he said, “Is His Royal Highness, Baran Wargentin, Crown Prince of Lorthia.” A faint smile pulled the corner of his mouth as Baran gave a particularly loud grunt and woke himself up.

Raiden looked out over the sea, where the twin moons were slowly revolving, their slivers of light moving from the bottom of their orbit, to their inside edges, causing the strange shifting of influences known as the crossing of the tides. Widely regarded throughout the Empire as a time of malign influence, few people would risk making important decisions, or traveling far from home during the next four days.

“Actually, Captain,” Raiden said. “I came to see if there was anything you wanted. Anything the House can get for you?” Looking away, he added softly, “Kasumi did not meet your requirements earlier. Is there anything … else … you would care to try?”

Resting both hands on the rail, Tessier shook his head; the wind whipping his hair back from his face. Lowering his head, he turned to look at Raiden. “Unless you’ve got a way of getting me into the good graces of the young woman I fought earlier?”

A curious light entered Raiden’s eyes, and he leaned back against the balcony rail, arms folded across his bare chest. “Jenevra?”

Tessier tossed down another glass of liquid fire and shuddered.

Tapping Tessier on the shoulder, Raiden beckoned him to the far end of the balcony. “She’s right there.” He jerked his head, gesturing up the side of the cliff, where a slight figure knelt in glimmering firelight. “You were angry with her earlier, I seem to recall. Not to mention Kasumi.”

Tessier’s eyes were fixed avidly on the princess, but he slumped visibly as Raiden’s words hit him. “Damn it, I know how it looked, but nothing happened. I swear it didn’t. She’ll never believe I love her now.” He raked his hands through his hair despairingly. “And who could blame her? I’m so stupid!”

Snoring himself awake again, Baran staggered out onto the balcony to relieve himself. Weaving unsteadily on his feet he leaned heavily on Tessier’s shoulder, peering blearily at Raiden. He belched, scratching at his head. “I may have had a little too much.”

“Prince Baran,” Raiden acknowledged, bowing his head.

“What’re you doing?” Baran asked the two of them.

“She’s up there.” Tessier pointed up the hillside.

“She?” Baran mocked. “Gods, Blaise, you’re not still blaming her for today are you? It was all your own fault. If you didn’t want Jenna to see you with a whore, then you shouldn’t have been with one! It’s really very simple.” Staggering across the floor to his sleeping mat, Baran rustled around noisily for a couple of minutes. “You know, Blaise, you could just try apologizing,” his voice came from the shadows. “Jenna did when she was wrong; and she was looking to apologize again tonight, when it wasn’t even her fault.” A loud thud as his head hit the floor told the two men that the Prince was asleep.

Slamming his hands on the balcony rail, Tessier cursed in frustration. “Apologize? How can I do that? She won’t even see me, I’ll bet.”

“You really care for her?” Raiden’s voice was hard.

“I love her. I want to marry her, but she doesn’t believe me.”

Nodding as his eyes searched Tessier’s for the truth and found only sincerity in them, Raiden smiled.

“Before you make any sudden move, Princess …”

Jenevra’s eyes snapped open.

“… this may be a good time to remind you that you don’t seem to have any clothes on.”

Recognizing the voice, she froze. “Get out! Get out now!”

“Mmm, no, I don’t think so, Princess. It’s such a shame to wake you. You look so peaceful when you’re asleep, but we need to talk,” Tessier murmured into her ear. “It would appear that it’s my turn to have you at a disadvantage.” He kissed her ear lightly. “And awfully pretty disadvantages they are too.”

Twisting her head, Jenevra glared at Tessier. “Captain Tessier, you’re drunk!”

“You don’t think I could face you sober after today do you?” Blaise sounded surprised. “We’re going to have to get married soon, you know. I don’t think I can keep my hands off you much longer.” He grinned at her; kissing her bare, bruised shoulder.

“If you think, for one minute, that I would marry you, Blaise Tessier …” Jenevra managed to push him away, rolling off the bed dragging the sheet around her, and prudently putting the width of the room between them. Extremely confused by the sensations Captain Tessier was managing to arouse in her so easily, and furious with herself for being so distracted by them, Jenevra clutched the sheet tightly to her and leaned back against the frame of the open screen to the balcony, trying to regain some element of control.

Crossing the room swiftly, Tessier noticed the princess’s eyes widening as she saw he was only wearing the brown pants she’d seen him in downstairs. Traveling over his body, her gaze rose slowly upwards until she caught the amused gleam in his eyes and tried to turn away. But, he’d already reached her and, with a foot planted firmly on a trailing corner of the sheet and an arm slamming onto the frame in front of her face, he had the princess cornered again. “We need to talk, Your Highness,” he said softly, wrapping an escaping lock of her hair around his fingers.

“So, talk,” Jenevra tugged at the trapped sheet with one hand, eyes downcast.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” Her head came up, surprise evident on her face.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Baran told me you came to apologize earlier—and that he didn’t think you needed to. I pushed you into that fight, and I’m sorry.”

Jenevra’s eyes searched his for their usual mockery, but found none. Glaring suspiciously, she pulled her lower lip through her teeth again. “And …?”

“And?” Surprise at her challenge widened Tessier’s eyes. Leaning closer, he tugged gently on the hair he had wound around his hand. “Well, let’s think, Princess,” he said. “How far back do you want to go with this, or shall we just keep to current events? What do you think I should apologize for? Can’t you just tell me you forgive me, and we can start all over again?” He tickled her shoulder with her hair even as he brushed her temple gently with his lips. “Just a kiss, Princess, that’s all it needs. One kiss to tell me I’m forgiven.”

“What’s to forgive, Captain?” Jenevra said coldly. “I don’t care about you, so why should anything you do bother me?” Again she had to push the image of the woman twining herself around Tessier out of her mind. Turning her head to look out towards the sea, she felt Tessier’s deep sigh. “I need you to forgive me, Princess, because I care.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. I’ve told you, and I’ll keep telling you until you believe me. I love you.”

Jenevra’s head snapped round, her face pale with anger. “How can you possibly have the bare-faced nerve to stand there and lie to me like that? If you’re so in love with me, what were you doing with that woman?”

“I was … angry.”

“Angry? So every time I make you angry—which seems to happen rather a lot as far as I recall—you’ll be off sleeping with someone to take your mind off it? Well, that’s very reassuring, Captain!” Ducking under his arm and wrenching the sheet from under his foot, Jenevra darted out onto the balcony.

“No … I … oh, dammit, Princess!” Tessier slammed both fists against the wall. “Look, nothing happened. You can ask her if you like, but I swear nothing happened. I wanted to push you out of my mind, but I couldn’t. It’s you I want and, apparently, need. I wanted her to be you.”

Jenevra glowered back over her shoulder at him. “Pull the other one, Captain.” As her mind swam with a thousand thoughts all at the same time, the princess turned her gaze towards the twin moons hovering near the surface of the sea. The crossed tides were visible near the horizon, with a line of crashing waves as the tides met each other. A time for bad news: an unlucky time for journeys and tasks to begin. Thinking about the journey in front of her and the tasks she already knew of, Jenevra’s shoulders dipped. Images flitted through her mind; of the Diruthian patrol and how easily that could have been so different; of Misha and Cieren; of Kasumi, the woman in Tessier’s bed.

Belatedly realizing that she hadn’t heard anything from Captain Tessier for several minutes now, she turned back into the room. In the warm glow of the large lamps she could see him sitting on the edge of the low bed, his head sunk in his hands almost on a level with his knees. Jenevra’s stomach flipped as she stood watching him for a long moment, the wind whipping the sheet around her. With the visions she had had, especially of her own death, she suddenly knew that she wasn’t ready to die not knowing what it felt like to be loved.

Pulling out the pin holding her hair up, she moved with quiet determination across the room, sinking to her knees as she reached Tessier. Tentatively stretching her hand out, she stroked his hair back from his face; snatching it back abruptly as he looked up at her.

“Princess?” Tessier sat up a little, a question in his dark eyes.

Jenevra swallowed hard, obviously bracing herself before raising her eyes to his face. “This whole forgiveness thing, Captain; how does it work?”

Barely trusting himself to speak and drive her away again, Tessier placed a finger on his lips. “Here, Princess. You just kiss here.” Puzzled as to her sudden apparent change of heart, Tessier didn’t want to jeopardize his chances, sitting silently as Jenevra chewed on her lip. Part of him wanted to laugh at her nervousness; part of him wanted to just crush her to him and tell her not to be afraid, but he didn’t dare do either. He sat still and quiet, while his heart raced and pounded so much that he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t hearing it.

Edging closer, Jenevra’s heart was thumping too. Rising up on her knees, one hand still clutching the sheet to her, she lifted the other hand towards Tessier’s face, surprised to see it trembling. As Tessier caught the hand gently in his own and held it, she leaned forward, grazing his lips very lightly with hers. Embarrassed, she lowered her head. “That wasn’t very good, was it?”

“Try again,” Tessier suggested softly. “Like your sword, Princess, it just takes practice.” He raised her face to his, the faintest glimmer of a smile warming his glance.

The princess’s second attempt was marginally better, but still barely qualifying as a kiss. Sitting back on her heels, frowning, she folded her arms. “I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can,” Tessier said. “You’ve just got to relax. You’re not leading your Flight into battle, it’s just a kiss.” His arms slid around her, pulling her back towards him. Unfolding her arms, Tessier tucked the sheet around her tightly and brushed a long lock of hair back from her face, holding her close, and resting his nose against hers. “There,” he murmured. “That’s better. Now we can keep practicing until you get it right.”

Sliding his fingers into her hair, Captain Tessier held the back of her head gently, stopping her pulling away as she tried a third time.

Jenevra’s hands came up against his chest, a slight hint of panic in her eyes.

Tessier smiled. “You have to breathe too, Princess,” he murmured. “You can’t keep holding your breath.”

Thick, long lashes swept up and Jenevra looked straight into his eyes. “Show me,” she whispered.

Gently tilting her head back, Tessier’s lips met hers, as his arms held her tightly, one hand exploring the chilled curves of her neck and shoulders. How he had ever thought the jaded women of the court were anything to please him he couldn’t imagine: not with this bewitching, antagonizing young creature around him.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” she whispered. “I really didn’t mean to do this. It’s just …”

“You couldn’t resist me?” He tightened his grip, grinning now. “I’m flattered, Princess, but why the change of heart?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Please … not tonight. Just hold me.” Sliding her hands up onto his chest, the look she directed up at him would have melted the heart of an iceberg.

Between anticipation and the effects of alcohol, it didn’t take Tessier long to respond to Jenevra’s lithe body pressed up against his.

“Princess, no … stop that,” Blaise tried to hold her away. “Stop! You have no idea what you’re starting.”

Innocent blue eyes gazed up trustingly, willingly into his. “You said I could come to you for lessons, remember? Teach me.”

“Oh no, young lady,” Blaise caught both her hands in his, pushing her away from him enough to stop her touching him. “You haven’t been drinking laowenton again, have you? If you’re going to keep doing this, I’ll just have to keep well away from you until we’re married. Is that really what you want?”

“No,” she said, frustration beginning to rise. “But you promised, Captain!”

“What?” Tessier sensed the shift in the conversation. “You’re not serious, Princess?” He frowned as she twisted away from him, aware of the tension and anger building in her, but not understanding its source. “Phillip would have me gelded!”

“Who are you to tell me when I’m being serious or not? You keep telling me you love me, but when it comes to it, you push me away! Chris was right about you, wasn’t she? That’s all it is to you isn’t it—just a game?”

Rolling on top of her to prevent her moving away from him, Blaise took hold of Jenevra’s shoulders, his own anger mounting. “No, you don’t, Princess. I invented that line. You can’t guilt me into sleeping with you. I do love you. That’s why I’m not treating you like all the others.”

“Apparently not,” she snapped, angrily embarrassed now: dear gods, she’d done it again, thrown herself at him and he didn’t want her. Despite what he kept saying, he really didn’t want her. “Holy Tessier … paragon of all virtues! Well, I don’t need you, Captain. There’re plenty of other men out there who’d be only too happy to—”

“Don’t you even think about finishing that sentence, Jenevra Couressime!” Blaise was thoroughly shocked, and furious. “You’re an Imperial Princess, not some dockside whore!”

“Well, you’re the expert on that!” she spat back at him. “I want to know what love is, Captain, and if you won’t help me …”

“That’s not love, you ridiculous girl! It’s lust, sex; call it what you will, it’s not anything you’re thinking, I guarantee you that.”

“Fine, Captain, I think you’ve made yourself perfectly clear on the subject. You can leave now. You don’t want me, and I have no intention of ever giving you the chance to reject me again.” Jenevra reached for a small bell.

‘What do you think you’re doing?” Blaise asked flatly, moving the bell out of her reach and folding his arms.

“None of your business, Captain.” Jenevra levered herself out from under him, disappearing behind the dressing screen; emerging moments later, fastening the ties on her blue robe. She glared at Tessier. “Why are you still here?”

“I asked you what you’re doing, Captain. I am still the senior officer around here. I’m responsible for you.” He spoke curtly, all trace of softness gone from his face.

When the princess didn’t answer him, but stood in front of the open screen windows dragging a comb through her hair, he stalked across and snatched the comb from her hand. “I’m waiting, Captain.”

Meeting his angry gaze with a deliberately calculating look, Jenevra’s stomach churned as she picked words she knew would goad him. “Raiden cares for me,” she said defiantly. “I’m going to …” She didn’t get any further as Blaise’s hand caught her across the face.

“Don’t you dare use him that way!” Blaise grasped her by the shoulders and shook her.

“You do … with women,” she accused. “Well, any woman except me.”

Momentarily taken aback by the truth of the statement, Tessier noticed that the princess had the same expression as the night he had held her after she had killed Misha. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Something in all this was frightening her, despite the feigned eagerness.

“Alright, then, Princess,” he said quietly. “You tell me why. Why now, why me, and why tonight? When you tell me the truth, I’ll make love to you.”

Jenevra didn’t know where to begin. He’d quite simply called her bluff, and she had nowhere to go. “It’s just …” she wanted to explain; to tell him she wanted to know love, with him, before she died, but the words simply wouldn’t come. Despairing, she sank onto the bed, her face in her hands.

Leaning across the bed, Tessier pulled the princess to him. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said softly. “I love you, Jenevra Couressime; despite everything you’re trying to do to stop it. I’m going to stay with you tonight, but that’s it, understand?” He looked down at the dark head nestled close in to his shoulder and hugged her tighter as she nodded. Peering underneath her hair he thought he saw wetness on her lashes. Kissing her eyes he murmured softly, “Tears, Princess?”

She couldn’t tell him she was leaving: not now, when all she wanted to do was stay curled in the protection of his arms. Wanting to be held by him for as long as she could, Jenevra leaned over to kiss him seriously, her tear-filled eyes taking in every detail of his face as she stroked the long hair back onto the pillow. “I think maybe I could have loved you, Captain.” Resting her head back in the crook of his shoulder, her hand lay across his heart.

“Could have?” He queried softly, laying his hand over hers.

She said nothing, just nuzzled closer again; her mind screaming.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

It was raining.

“You’ll catch your death.” Bernardo’s tall form moved out from the shadows at the side of the inn’s barn as Jenevra reached the doors. “So, what’s this about?” Pulling his cloak from his shoulders he draped it over the princess, ignoring her protests. “What does the Order want from you now?” he asked cynically.

“How did you know?” Jenevra pulled a long, wet strand of hair from her face.

“They never seem to give you a break, Princess,” he shrugged. “And I reckoned there was a good chance you’d be running away from Captain Tessier by now.”

“I’m not running away from anything, or anyone, Bernardo,” she growled.

Bernardo stood in the rain, hands loosely clasped behind him as if he was walking through a spring morning. “You forget, Captain, some of us have known you since you were tiny.” He smiled down. “Tiny-er. But in all those years, I’ve never seen you react to anyone the way you do with Captain Tessier.”

“Yes, so? He makes me angry. He’s always making fun of me. He just doesn’t take me seriously.”

“And you’ve never felt so alive with anyone else … have you?” Bernardo’s deep voice asked gently. “Admit it, Princess. If you weren’t so convinced you have to prove yourself to everyone—including this Flight—you could let yourself like the man?”

“It’s not that simple, Bernardo.” Jenevra stalked into the barn.

Bernardo‘s long legs soon overtook her. “Why not give him a chance, Captain? He’s a good man, despite his reputation. I bet you haven’t even noticed how he watches over you? That certainly earned him some points with the Flight.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful,” she muttered, each word Bernardo spoke reminding her of Tessier was like a knife. “I’m sure you’ll all be very happy together. But it’s irrelevant. I have to leave. I have something to take care of that doesn’t need any distractions, and that’s what he is. Will you help me?”

“You could just make it an order, Captain,” he smiled.

“I could, and if anyone ever questions it, you feel free to call it just that. But will you help me, Bernardo?”

“You know I will.”

Jenevra stopped; turning towards one of the very few men she would trust implicitly with anything. Sighing heavily she told him, “Jai-Nimh has an execution order on him for betraying the Order. Ki-Nimh’s in no condition to go after him. The added complication is that Lady Menzetti used to be in the Order. Jai-Nimh was her training partner—like Misha with me. When Ki-Nimh tells her what happened on the Island, she’ll want to go after him. She’s almost obliged to do so … assuming the shock of it all doesn’t kill her in the first place.” Concern for the older woman darkened her face. “I can’t let her do that, Bernardo. The journey alone would kill her. So, I’m going to have to take care of it before she tries.”

“Alone?” The point that he didn’t argue about her going at all wasn’t lost on her.

She nodded. “I think so. I really don’t want to go at all, but I know Graea will try to. Can you … misdirect people for a while? Just to give me a chance to get clear. You know you’ll be the one they’ll trust for tracking me.”

“What about Captain Tessier, Princess?” Bernardo was serious as he looked at her again. “He’s going to tear the Empire apart looking for you.”

“He won’t. Phillip won’t let him. And even so, it’s not my problem, Bernardo. Just try to keep slowing them down. I don’t know how,” she said, helplessly. “I’ll leave the Spirit Sword. Then you can all legitimately follow Tessier, at least back to Salanova, until you can hand it over to Phillip.”

“I’d feel better about this if I knew someone we could trust was going with you,” Bernardo wiped rain from his face with his sleeve. “Why not let me go with you?”

“Apart from the fact that it would be treason for any of you to desert the Flight like that … no, it really wouldn’t help at all. It’s better if I go alone, and soon: before anyone else tries anything stupid. Just get me a couple of weeks if you can, Bernardo.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

She shook her head. “Not straight to Diruthia, that’s too obvious. Cieren’s stupid, but Jai-Nimh’s not. I’ll just have to try to find them. I’ve got a couple of leads.” Squaring her shoulders, Jenevra laid one hand on Bernardo’s arm; pulling his cloak off and handing it back to him. “Thank you for understanding.”

Bernardo grunted. “I learned a long time ago that arguing with you was the fastest way to talk you into doing something. Just promise me one thing,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Think about what I said. Captain Tessier would be good for you, you know … and there isn’t a man in the Flight who’d begrudge you—”

“Shut up, Bernardo,” the princess cut him off, gently. “Two weeks, my friend: just get me two weeks.”

As the darkness of night began to shift into the peculiar half light of early morning, Jenevra slipped out of the city on her horse, unseen by most. Leaving the open road for the cover of the forest as soon as she could, she met with a young man who took her horse and rode as hard as he could for Mirizir.

Melting into the dark shadows of the forest, Jenevra swung a rolled up cloak over her shoulders, and began running. She took nothing else with her except for a small amount of money. The paths she was planning to take would be mostly solitary, and if not, well, she’d just find a way to deal with whatever happened. Turning, she looked back once at the city, her eyes resting longingly on the house at the crest of the hill. Praying that she would live to see them all again, she turned resolutely to the west, determined to get as much distance between her and them as possible.

Two days later, running northwards along the Jantaran border, Jenevra crossed over into Coural, the land of her own birth. Small in contrast to the other territories that made up the Marissime Empire, Jenevra was quite convinced that Coural was the most beautiful. Thickly fragrant pine forests clustered along the feet of the southern Coural mountain range which stretched all the way from this point into the far north of Bortka. Deep tarns and waterfalls punctuated the high peaks; rapids and cataracts falling in miniature cascades, delicate and light rather than the rolling waters of the Great Hern River in Lorthia.

Picking up some food in the small town of Orsattim, Jenevra headed west through the forest, beginning the ascent to the lower pass through the mountains which would bring her out just east of Lake Vosta in Jantara. From there it would only be a short journey to Ralta, a port where she was hoping she would be able to pick up some clue as to Jaiyen’s whereabouts. At the very least she should be able to find a ship heading up the eastern coast towards Diruthia.

Although the pass through the mountains was navigable by horseback, Jenevra chose to forego the speed for secrecy, deciding that a horse was far more easily tracked by eyes other than Bernardo’s. She climbed steadily, barely resting at night, clambering over the higher slopes where footprints would not be seen and where there were no branches to be broken to give anyone an idea of where she was headed. Closer to her destination she acquired a horse from an inn and joined the heavier traffic on the road to Ralta.

Five days out from Virat, she rode into Ralta and headed directly for the harbor. A tidy looking inn on the harbor side, clean and freshly painted, was her first call. Depositing the horse in the stables behind the building, she pulled the hood of her cloak forward and slipped in to the main room, moving quickly to a table in a far corner. As the innkeeper’s wife approached with a tray full of darkly foaming beer which she was distributing around various tables, Jenevra reached out a gloved hand and placed a small token on the woman’s tray. With barely a raised eyebrow, the woman covered the token with her hand and bent forward to whisper under Jenevra’s hood.

Nodding briefly, Jenevra walked swiftly across the room, climbing the stairs and letting herself into the third room on the left: a corner room with windows facing out onto both the harbor and the main street approaching the inn. Surveying the location with a grim satisfaction, she pulled the long cloak off, draping it over a small chair.

“Peace, Nimh—” Entering the room, the innkeeper stopped in his tracks as he saw a young woman dressed in the standard gray of the Order in front of him.

“Nimh’a,” Jenevra supplied with a smile. “I need your help, my friend.”

“Forgive me, my Lady,” he was obviously perplexed. “I didn’t know.”

“I’m the only one. Your name?”

“Remiel, my Lady … Nimh’a.” He began to panic, never having catered for women before in his dealings with the Order. “Please forgive the humble room.”

“Remiel, please, I require nothing different from any other member of the Order. You must treat me exactly the same.” Jenevra motioned to him to sit down. “I need to stay a few days, Remiel. I’m looking for someone, and I’m hoping Ralta will be the right place to find some trace of them. They have betrayed the Order.” She nodded at his gasp. “I have to find them. But there are other people trying to find me. I have to be out of here before they reach me.”

“Just tell me what you need, Nimh’a. If we can help in any way, we will.”

Remiel placed himself, his inn and its facilities totally at her disposal, bustling off to find food and drink for his honored guest—albeit a guest whose identity he would never discuss with anyone other than his wife. Reappearing quickly with a large platter of fruit, cheese, freshly baked bread and a jug of clear water, Remiel rubbed one hand over his shining bald pate as he sat again to listen to Jenevra explain what she needed from him. The stocky man cracked each knuckle in turn as he pondered what she needed. “Maybe if we explain you as a niece of mine, or Fara’s? That should keep any enthusiastic hands off you, or at least give me an excuse to intervene. I still don’t see why you can’t let me listen out for you, Nimh’a. I don’t like the idea of you being out there.”

Jenevra’s smile widened. “Remiel, you are a blessing, truly, but I won’t come to any harm out there, believe me. I think being your niece, just visiting and helping out for a few days sounds perfect. I have to be out there. I’m not exactly sure what information will be useful. I just have to keep listening.” She paused, thinking. “Do you have many regulars here, Remiel?” When he nodded, she continued, “Why don’t you just tell your regulars—confidentially—that I’m here trying to avoid a nobleman who’s being a bit persistent in his attentions. It’ll make them all more accepting if I suddenly start dodging around or trying to hide.”

Remiel chuckled. “I can do that, Nimh’a. By the way, what are we to call you? Can’t keep on calling you Nimh’a can we? It had better not be your real name either. Not if people are tracking you.”

“What about Coretta? Will that sound too out of place here?”

The innkeeper smiled back at her. “Coretta it is. I’ll send Fara up with a change of clothes for you. I’m assuming you don’t have anything appropriate wrapped in that?” He nodded at the small bundle she’d carried in with her. “Welcome to Ralta … niece.”

As they’d expected, Remiel’s introduction of Jenevra as Coretta, his sister’s daughter, hiding out with them in order to avoid the persistent attentions of an unwanted suitor, drew on the protective instincts of all the regulars. Naturally suspicious of all nobles, they accepted the story as truth from the moment they set eyes on her. It was obvious to them that such a pretty, innocent looking girl would be the natural prey of most spoiled young noblemen, and a cadre of fierce protectors was soon ready to defend her from the unsolicited advances from anyone in the inn who’d had too much to drink. Coretta breezed cheerfully from table to table, smiling at everyone, but never hovering long enough for hands to land where they shouldn’t. Evening would draw in and find them entertained around the fire by Coretta’s stories of the Gods and the stars. Most townsfolk were unaware of the stories because they never got out to look into the sky. The sailors who rolled into the inn, the men who spent each night with a sky full of stars for company, loved to hear the constellations they were familiar with related to the Gods.

Five days passed. Jenevra lived her life as Coretta without any regret, but also without any information presenting itself. Remiel and Fara had brought her several pieces of information that they had come across out in the markets and guild houses, but none of them proved to be the lead she was waiting for.

“What ship is that?” she asked Remiel, pointing out through the windows at an unusual shape of sail and deck. “I haven’t seen one like that in the last week. Where’s it from?”

Remiel peered past her, drying up a tankard with a cloth as she washed it and handed it to him. “Labrian,” he noted, dismissing it. “We don’t see them in here very often. Most Labrians don’t drink. It’s something to do with their religion.”

“Labria’s out west isn’t it? Across the ocean, I mean?”

Remiel nodded. “There’s a fair bit of trade goes on between them and us. Mainly perfumes and silks from them: we send food, wheat, that sort of thing. It’s only about a two week journey across to their nearest ports: much longer if you go down around to their southern kingdoms.”

“It looks like a fast ship,” Jenevra noticed the long lines, the low slung deck of the vessel tying up at the harbor. “I wonder if they’ll be going on up to Diruthia?”

“Well now, that’s a right surprise, to be sure,” Remiel commented as five men swathed in dark mantles entered the inn, taking seats at one of the tables nearest the window. “They’re from the Labrian ship,” he explained to Jenevra’s puzzled look. “Very unusual to see them in here. Better take a jug of water with you as well as ale.” He raised his voice in greeting to the Labrians. “Welcome, gentlemen! Hurry up now, Coretta; don’t keep the gentlemen waiting.”

Jenevra picked up a tray with five cups, a jug of ale and a jug of water on it and headed over to the table. “Ale, gentlemen, or would water be more to your tastes?” she asked, placing the tray down.

“You may leave both,” a heavily accented voice said, pushing his hood back.

Glancing at the speaker with a smile, Jenevra’s eyes widened. “Jatar?” she gasped before she could think.

The man leaned forward, a strong tanned hand clamping down on her wrist. “What did you call me?”

“I’m sorry, my Lord, nothing.” Jenevra tried to pull her hand free without attracting anyone else’s attention. The face she was looking into was an almost exact replica of Farid Jatar except, now that she was looking longer, she could see that it wasn’t him. This face was younger, less careworn; although she wasn’t sure when she’d ever thought of Farid as looking troubled. “You … you reminded me of someone … I thought. But I was wrong.” She pulled again, but the hand didn’t let go.

“Who is Jatar?” the young man demanded. “Do you truly know someone who looks like me, or is that just a mistake you made because you do not see many people from my land. Maybe you think we all look alike?”

“No, sir,” Jenevra finally managed to pull her hand away from his crushing grip. Taking a step back from the table she asked, “Can I get anything else for you gentlemen?”

The Labrian shook his head, although his eyes continued to watch her as she moved around the room looking after other guests.

As evening fell, Coretta’s task was to ensure that lamps were lit outside the inn, and to place candles on all of the tables. Stretching up to lift one of the large lanterns down, she found it being lowered to her. The young Labrian was holding the lantern with its door open. Lighting it she stood while he hung it back up. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He pushed his cloak back again, revealing a similarity to Farid Jatar that had to be beyond coincidence. “I must ask you again, who is Jatar?”

“A man I know,” she replied simply. “Who bears a striking resemblance to you. I was startled earlier because I thought you were him.”

“Does he have another name, this Jatar you speak of?”

“He might do; if I knew who was asking and why.” Jenevra gazed into the dark eyes watching her face. “How do I know that you don’t mean him any harm?”

“Would you accept my word?” There was a slight smile in the young man’s eyes, but his face remained grave.

“I would accept his, but I don’t know you. Why should I accept your word?”

“You don’t know our people then? Our word is sacred to us. We do not give it lightly—it is a matter of faith.”

She smiled. “Well, that certainly sounds like him. If it is, as you say, a matter of faith, then you won’t mind giving me your name first.”

Pressing his hands to his heart and extending them palms up towards her in a gesture she had seen Farid make on numerous occasions, the young man bowed slightly. “My name is Faris Jattarn. I am searching for my brother who I believe is living in your empire. Our father is very ill and unlikely to live much longer. It is his wish to be reconciled to my brother before his death. My brother’s name is …”

“Farid …” Jenevra finished the sentence for him.

“Then you do know him?”

“I think so; although, you should know, he claims to have no family. I know a man who calls himself Farid Jatar, who is incredibly like you to look at; a man of deep faith and commitment. But he’s not here. In fact, at the moment I can’t tell you exactly where he is.” Jenevra looked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

Faris bowed again. “I understand. It is enough that I know he is here, somewhere. I will keep searching for him.” He looked surprised as Jenevra suddenly turned away, hiding her face in the shadows, dragging him in front of her. “Is something wrong?”

“Shh,” she hissed at him. “I don’t believe it. What on earth is he doing here?” She peered around Faris at a tall cloaked figure entering the inn, obviously trying to be subtle about his presence there. Eyes narrowing in thought, Jenevra swore softly.

“You know him?” Faris asked quietly.

She nodded briefly. “I do. But I certainly didn’t expect to see him here.” She looked up at Faris. “Thank you for your help with the lantern. I’m sorry I can’t be more help with finding Farid. Possibly if you stay here he may show up. He’s with some other people who are probably looking for me. If they track me here, he’ll be with them.” She turned towards the back of the inn.

“You don’t want this man to see you?” Faris surmised. “He is not one of the men with Farid then?” A gleam of white teeth split his dark face. “You need to get in without being seen?”

Jenevra nodded. “I can slip in through the kitchen.”

“Which is your room?”

Raising her eyebrows, she smiled again. “Your brother wouldn’t consider that an appropriate question, you know.” She pointed to the corner room; the window facing the harbor was open to allow the evening’s cool breezes in.

Faris strode over standing underneath the window with his hands clasped together. “Do you think you could make it up there, with a little help?”

Chuckling softly, Jenevra ran at him, using his hands as a step to propel her up to the window. Grasping the window ledge, she pulled herself up easily, turning round and sitting on the sill to wave at Faris. “Much quicker. Thank you again.”

“I would guess that you have done that before,” the young man observed. “You are not altogether what you seem, I think. We will talk again soon: tomorrow maybe?” Before she could answer he was gone, disappearing back inside the inn.

Jenevra slipped out of her room, craning her head over the banisters to see if she could spot the hooded man in the main room; but there was no sign of him. That meant he was probably upstairs; he could walk out on her at any moment. Sliding silently along the hallway, she listened briefly at the doors, trying to identify the voices inside. Three doors away from her own she found the one she was searching for. The room next to it was unoccupied, so she went in, settling down to listen through the walls to whatever she could manage to hear. For the second time in recent weeks, she had a strong impulse to do something without knowing why, and placed one hand against the wall and the other on the talisman still hanging around her neck. That same faint glimmer surrounded her arm that the healer had noticed in Ki-Nimh’s tent, and Jenevra was puzzled—and delighted—that she could hear the conversation as clearly as if she was in the room itself. Setting the questions aside for a time when Ki-Nimh might help her with the answers, she settled in to listen.

The conversation turned her pale with anger. The information she needed was right in front of her now, yet she knew she would have to wait a little longer before acting on it. The Emperor’s safety was now directly threatened: another side trip would be necessary. Furious at the delay she sank onto her bed, trying to contemplate all possible courses of action open to her. Once again using the talisman left her feeling as though she’d just run twenty miles in heavy snow, and she gasped for breath.

Morning dawned pale and misty on the edge of the ocean. Jenevra had barely slept; thinking and planning through the night. Dressed in her gray clothing, Remiel and Fara knew she was leaving them before she said a word. Thanking them profusely, she promised to come back at some time in the future.

“Our evenings won’t be the same without your stories my Coretta,” Remiel said sadly. “They’ll all be complaining, you know.”

Hugging them both warmly for their generous hearts, and accepting a small bundle of food from Fara, Jenevra wrapped the gray cloak around her, and headed down the length of the harbor. Stopping at the Labrian ship, she called to the watch to fetch Faris.

Curious as to who was asking for him, Faris came up on deck.

Pushing her hood back, Jenevra smiled at him. “Any chance you’re planning on sailing up the coast at all?”

The Labrian vessel was even faster than Jenevra had suspected. She stood at the bow, a deep satisfaction welling in her at the freedom such speed inspired.

“You have sailed before.” Faris came up behind her, noting the ease with which she moved around the ship; not the awkward stumbling of the land-bound. He had been surprised to see her arrive that morning, but was always willing to try a small adventure. He’d understood immediately that she was no ordinary tavern wench, but her appearance with her twin swords prominently displayed again was something of a shock. Women in his country traditionally didn’t wear men’s clothing, nor did they carry swords: in fact, he knew that any woman other than his own sister would have thought twice before speaking to him directly. But Faris had traveled to the Empire long enough to know that women behaved differently here: he’d simply never met one quite like Jenevra. Knowing his brother, Faris could only marvel at how Farid had managed to come to terms with her. Farid had always been the more serious of the two of them; less willing to accept differences, especially within tradition. Of course, that had been before Ghaliya.

“Not on any ship as fast as this one. It’s wonderful.” Leaning against the deck rail, Jenevra folded her arms lightly and glanced across at Faris. “I suppose I should really tell you my name,” she said.

“You mean you’re not really Coretta?” Sarcasm shaded Faris’s voice.

“My name is Jenevra Couressime. I’m the Emperor’s cousin.”

Faris said nothing.

“Honestly, Faris. It’s true. I wouldn’t lie to you—Farid will tell you that. Anyway, aren’t you hiding a title or two from me?”

“It may be so,” Faris conceded. “How did you know?”

“You need to tell your men to stop bowing every time you walk past.”

Faris smiled. “So, Your Highness … that’s why you want to get to Salanova quickly? To get back to the Court?”

Jenevra pulled a face. “Not exactly, Faris. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for a couple more favors…”

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Robed in a rich blue silk, Faris Jattarn, Prince of Labria, sat deep in conversation with Emperor Phillip Marissun. Arriving unannounced as an emissary from his father, King Asad V of Labria, the young Prince and his entourage had been swiftly and formally welcomed to the Palace. Upon the Prince announcing his desire to speak with the new Emperor personally and sending a gift of a dagger to him, Phillip had dismissed all of his attendants, including a fuming Chancellor.

The Prince’s attendants had all remained in his quarters, except for a handmaiden who knelt at his feet, veiled in black from head to toe, much to Phillip’s secret amusement. He wondered how Christiana would take it if he decided he needed a young woman at his side constantly. Being a wise man he reasoned that his health would be better if he never raised the question.

“Your Imperial Majesty, may I speak freely here?” the Prince was asking.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Phillip waved a hand at him.

“No, Your Majesty … I mean can we speak freely?” Faris nodded meaningfully at the walls.

Suddenly serious Phillip leaned forward, eyes almost as dark as Faris’s own glittering dangerously. “Are you suggesting someone may be spying on us?” He whispered. “Very well, Your Highness, how important is what you want to discuss?”

“I have information about a plot to assassinate you, Your Majesty.” Faris whispered back. “We have to talk where we cannot be overheard.” He leaned down towards his handmaiden. “There is a large fountain in your grounds here? With a dolphin?”

Puzzled, Phillip nodded. “Very well, Your Highness; let’s take a walk.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “I take it your maid will be joining us?”

“Of course,” Faris gave a dazzling smile. “She never leaves my side.”

As they strolled through the gardens, Faris related details of information Jenevra had given him: details she had overheard from the man at the inn. He also told Phillip much of what had been happening to Jenevra and the Shadow Flight, including Mikhail Dhorani’s death and the involvement of Jaiyen and Prince Cieren of Diruthia.

“And you’re absolutely sure about where this information came from, Your Highness?” Phillip queried as the two of them sat by the splashing dolphin fountain. “Because I know for certain that the person you heard this from can be incredibly unreliable.” He grinned broadly as he heard disgusted noises coming from underneath the handmaiden’s veil, where she knelt at Faris’s feet again.

“I can see how you might think that, Your Majesty,” Faris agreed. “But I did see the man myself. If we need to I think I can probably identify him for you.” He poked at the veiled figure with his red leather boot. “Handmaidens are traditionally silent!”

“Not that one,” Phillip smiled; certain of his guess now. “Why are we hiding, Jenn? Not like you to be unobtrusive.”

“Funny, aren’t you,” he heard Jenevra’s voice from under the veil. “Do you really think I’d be baking under all this if I didn’t think it was necessary? If you can just accept the information and make plans on it, I can get back to what I need to do.”

“Which is?”

“Cieren and his great-uncle are on their way to meet up with Corros. I need to get there first. If I can stop the two of them, I’m sure Corros won’t bring his army out of Diruthia. It’s only their prodding that’s encouraged him to think he can. I would recommend you pull all of the Flights back in anyway, to counter that other threat Faris told you of. And yes, before you even ask, I’d know him anywhere.”

“You can’t do this alone, Jenn. Why aren’t you taking your Flight with you?” Phillip was genuinely concerned for his cousin.

“Please, Phil, can you just take my word for it that it’s easier this way? I have to go alone, and now.” She sighed deeply. “Order needs have crossed with Empire needs, and by leaving my Flight, I’ve basically just committed treason, I think. I don’t want the Flight to be accused too. They’re probably going to track me to Ralta in the next day or so. If you send your recall there, you should get at least my Flight back. Everyone will be astounded that you knew where to find them. You’ll just make yourself look even more omnipotent!”

“Oh yes, I like that idea. I can do all that, can’t I?” Phillip grinned. “I’m the Emperor! And, by the way Jenn, it’s not treason if I know about it. If you think about it, you could even consider it a follow on from our discussions before you left for Mirizir.” The grin disappeared and his tone turned serious. “Just as long as we all know I won’t be sacrificing the Empire to get you back if your plan goes wrong!”

“Fair enough; I don’t expect you to do anything to get me back, you know that,” she approved. “So, if you were to go back to Ralta with Phil’s orders, Faris, your brother should turn up there too. That’s good. I like a nice neat solution—especially when people have been so helpful.” Both men could hear the smug tone in Jenevra’s voice.

Phillip rolled his eyes. “I don’t suppose you or your brother would like to consider marrying an Imperial Princess would you?” he said hopefully, ignoring the gasp from Jenevra.

“I cannot answer for my brother, Your Majesty, but, honored though I would be, I fear this particular Princess would cause a revolution in my country.” Faris grinned, digging his finger into Jenevra’s shoulder, as muffled objections and curses emanated from the shrouded figure at his feet. “Be silent woman!”

“I didn’t think you’d mind, Jenn,” Phillip noted. “It’s not as though there’s anyone special.” A wicked chance to provoke his cousin was at hand, and he didn’t mean to lose it. “Obviously, if there was someone you had feelings for, I might think about it. Like the gallant Captain Tessier, maybe?”

“Great Tore!” She exploded, eliciting a sharper kick from Faris. “Don’t you people have anything better to do with your time? I do not want to discuss Tessier.”

“I do … and I’m your Emperor.” Phillip’s voice held nothing but disbelieving amusement. “I mean, I could order you to marry him, I suppose. He is a Duke in his own right, after all. It wouldn’t be too bad a match.”

Phillip and Faris continued their discussions strolling around the grounds, Faris reminding his handmaiden every few minutes that she was supposed to walk demurely behind him, not stride out impatiently in front. As the Labrian Prince and his party prepared to leave the Imperial Palace, pleading a prior trade negotiation that the Prince was committed to, Phillip extended the invitation to visit again soon: perhaps he would care to join him in a hunting trip on his return from the business trip? “And please tell your handmaiden to be careful,” he murmured, leaning forward to shake Faris’s hand. “I’m really rather fond of her.”

Leaving Faris to return to his ship, moored in Lake Kata, half a day’s ride west of Salanova, Jenevra took a horse and headed north towards Bortka; the quickest land route to Diruthia. Alone, she made good time; crossing the border by the following evening; the solitude working wonders on her mood. A further days hard riding brought her across the Falling river, southwest of Bereznay; onto the road leading to Colin and Annis’ inn. She’d decided that a brief stop would be in order. She wasn’t likely to be this way again for some time, and at least she could check that the innkeeper, his wife and the three children orphaned by the massacre at Albor were all safe. Part of the conversation she had overheard had led her to think there was a threat, and she wanted to warn them.

Trotting into the courtyard as the evening darkened, she was glad she’d made the diversion. The talisman was throbbing through her head again, screaming danger to her which, she supposed, was only to be expected given her mission. She led her horse into the stables, conscientiously rubbing him down and feeding him before she entered the inn; pleasantly surprised that the stables seemed full. It looked as though business had picked up again at the inn. As she was walking across the yard towards the glowing lights of the tavern, two small figures hurtled out towards her.

“Princess! It’s really you! You came back!” Teshia and Tilda threw themselves onto her, squealing with delight; clinging onto her tightly.

“Yes, alright girls, don’t crush me,” Jenevra grinned at their enthusiasm; pushing the pain in her head aside. “Come on then Tilda, up you come.” She swung the younger girl up onto her back; while Teshia skipped alongside her. “I promised you I’d visit, didn’t I?”

They were going through the doors of the crowded inn when Teshia said brightly. “That’s what he said … that you’d be coming soon. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Suddenly wary, Jenevra glanced down at the prancing six-year old. He? “Teshia, who is ‘he’?”

“That would be me, Your Imperial Highness.” Prince Cieren of Diruthia stood by the fire, an expression of deep satisfaction on his face and his hand resting on Tallis’s shoulder. “We had a feeling you might swing past this way, so I’ve come to extend an invitation, so to speak. Oh, I wouldn’t bother going for those swords, Princess,” he observed as she swung Tilda down from her back. “Everyone in here is mine. As your small friend there said, we’ve been hoping you would drop by.”

Cursing inwardly at the lack of care she’d taken; letting her happiness at seeing the children again override every facet of training she’d had; Jenevra still faced Cieren calmly. “Where are Colin and Annis?”

“Safe enough, for now,” Cieren wrinkled his nose in distaste, swatting at a chair with his gloves before sitting down. Even now he was impeccably dressed; not one piece of clothing showing sign of wear or travel; his only concession to the road being a long pair of riding boots rather than his usual shoes. Smoothing down the imaginary wrinkles in his pale turquoise coat, he picked at a phantom speck of lint. “Of course, everybody’s continued well-being depends entirely on you,” he said, pointedly.

“I thought it might,” Jenevra hooked a chair out, sat down and put her feet up on the table. “Well, I’m here now, so you don’t really need the others, do you? Enlighten me, Your Highness. What do you want?”

“We’ll start with your weapons, Princess. All of them.”

Thankful that she’d left the Spirit Sword behind, she removed her cloak and took the twin swords off, laying them on the table in front of her. She took a long knife from the belt around her waist and two long thin daggers from her boots. “There.”

“Oh, really, Princess, you don’t expect me to believe that’s all you’re carrying do you?” Cieren sneered. “Jaiyen’s told me about all those other things you carry with you. Of course, I can always have my men search you—thoroughly?” He tapped his fingers on his arm. “All of it, Your Highness … now.”

She hesitated, anger flaring in her eyes.

“Try it, Princess,” Cieren said softly, glancing meaningfully at the children. “Just give me a reason.” Moving across the room to where she sat and leaning forward onto the table he stared into her eyes; looking for fear but finding only contempt. “Now.”

Schooling her face to impassivity, Jenevra pushed away from the table. From various places she produced six other small knives and two lengths of sharp thin wire. As Cieren held three fingers up at her, she sighed slightly, pulling a third length of wire out of the collar of her jacket. “Happy now, Your Highness?”

Cieren grunted noncommittally, signaling one of his leather-clad men to pick the small arsenal up from the table.

“So, now what?”

“First, I think a short lesson may be in order. Then, we ride to Diruthia, Your Highness. I have a friend with this overwhelming urge to see you, as does Jaiyen. Jaiyen was severely put out that you eluded us after your little spat with Mikhail. How did you get away from that beach?”

“What does your ‘friend’ want?”

Cieren shrugged; a sly smile on his face. “You’ll find out soon enough, Princess. First things first. Major?”

A tall, elegant man, dressed like all the others in heavy black leather, with long pale blond hair tied neatly back, cold gray eyes, and a veneer of civility like his master’s, stood forward; an air of barely concealed disdain as he looked down his long nose at the travel-stained girl in front of Prince Cieren. Clicking his fingers at three of his men, they moved to either side and behind Jenevra. “If you would please accompany us, Your Highness,” he waved towards the door. “I’m sure we’ll be back in no time.”

“This is just a reminder, Princess.” Cieren’s breath was warm on her face as he kissed her cheek lightly, whispering into her ear, “Any trouble from you and next time it will be the children.” Turning to the group departing he added, “Nothing visible, Major Naran.”

Nodding curtly, the Major shut the door behind them; following the four out into a small side area shadowed by long eaves, to the side of the kitchen. The three men escorting the princess were built on the same lines as her own Sergeant, Brogan; blocky and strong, with enough scars visible for her to know that they had seen serious action before. No raw recruits in Cieren’s Guard; just tough veterans. They took their places as Major Naran pulled heavy leather gauntlets on; two men still to the sides and one behind her but, to her surprise, they didn’t even attempt to hold her. She was still expecting them to suddenly pin her arms when Naran slammed a hard punch low into her stomach, doubling her over. Angry with herself for not anticipating it, she glared at him, pulled herself upright and blocked his next punch, without thinking further.

Major Naran folded his arms, tut-tutting at her. “Now really, Your Highness,” he said blandly. “It would have been so much better if you hadn’t done that. Theirn,” he looked over her head at the soldier behind her. “You know where they are.” As Theirn disappeared into the darkness, the other two stepped forward to take rough hold of the princess; their grip tight on her upper arms as she made a token show of trying to pull away–if the children weren’t still inside …

Naran’s fist landed in almost the exact spot again, taking her breath away momentarily. “Don’t struggle, Your Highness,” Naran advised calmly, lifting her chin in his gloved hand. “You’ll just make things worse.” He dropped his hand, hearing booted feet approaching behind them. “Ah, splendid, Theirn.” The soldiers swung the princess round to face the new arrivals, a knowing smile lighting Naran’s face as he heard the indrawn breath she couldn’t quite suppress in time.

Colin and Annis were being held by four more soldiers; both bound and gagged, with terrified expressions in their eyes; each of their captors holding a knife ready. Seeing the young Princess there brought tears springing to Annis’s eyes.

Naran turned his attention back to Jenevra. “Your choice, Your Highness,” he pointed towards Colin and Annis. “Which one dies first?”

Closing her eyes, Jenevra swallowed hard, knowing that even if she could fight her way out of their grip, the soldiers holding Colin and Annis would slit their throats before she could reach them. Biting on her lip, she shook her head, refusing to choose.

Resigned, as if he’d been expecting that response, Naran issued his order. “Kill them both.” He looked directly at the princess as she made an outraged protest. “Just for that,” he added. “Use the woman first if you’ve a mind to it.”

“Any more objections, Your Highness? We do still have three children inside if you’ve any arguments left.” Naran smiled as he heard the sounds of his men following his orders for Colin and Annis, knowing the princess couldn’t avoid hearing it too. “Will you require my men to hold onto you for the rest of our lesson?”

Choking back tears and nausea, she stood silently, nails biting into her palms.

Naran’s fist pounded into her five more times; each time waiting until she dragged herself to her feet again. At least two of the punches landed on top of the sword wound on the left side, the only one not cauterized, and she worried vaguely that it would open up again. As she stood after the last blow, the two soldiers held her again at a signal from the Major.

“Still with us, Your Highness?” he asked, as courteously as if he’d been asking if she took milk or lemon in tea. Removing the gauntlet, his long fingers cupped her face again, looking into her eyes for signs of lucidity, amused by the venomous glint he found there. Tilting his head as if expecting a retort, he moved closer to her, feeling her tense as he untied the laces at the top of her shirt. “Now, now, Princess,” Naran said. “Think of the children.”

Cold fingers played at her throat.

Unconsciously, she flinched backwards; then froze.

A patronizing smile emerged on Naran’s lean face. “Well done, Your Highness. It seems we’re learning.” He pushed her further back into the shadows, up against the wall of the inn; the two soldiers still holding her arms, but their grip far lighter as they saw her reluctant cooperation.

Her stomach a hollow pit, Jenevra tried the only argument she thought had a chance. “If you harm me, the Emperor will kill you.”

The three men laughed.

Leaning the long hard length of his body against her, Naran placed his hand across the front of her throat, forcing her face up. “My dear Princess,” he bent his head and drew his tongue slowly from the base of her throat to her mouth. “I don’t see our beloved Emperor anywhere here. And as for the master I serve, well, as long as I don’t spoil his ultimate pleasure, Prince Cieren doesn’t care what we do with you. And I have a feeling that as long as we have the three children safely in our care, you won’t be making too many objections either.” He licked across her lips, still holding her face as she tried to turn away from him. Pulling back slightly, his expression hardened. “Not forgetting our lessons so soon, surely?”

Naran felt the resistance lessen. “Look at me, Princess,” he ordered. “I said, look at me!”

Hardly hearing him, Jenevra’s eyes were closed as she tried desperately to think of a way out, but with the children held inside she couldn’t come up with anything. The talisman had started its pounding deep inside her again, but she knew that she had to try to keep control this time. If she kept to the rules she was bound by in the Order, she would put nothing ahead of the Empire, not even those three innocent lives; but what, she asked herself, would be the point of sacrificing them at this point? She had already made the mistakes that had brought them all to this—she had allowed herself to care for people. Colin and Annis were already dead: she had heard Annis’s muffled cries cease. Jenevra knew she still needed to kill Jaiyen, and he wasn’t here. She had to go to Diruthia with Cieren and his men whatever came of it. The children didn’t have to die. Maybe she’d have a chance to get the children away from there. It was the only way to salvage any honor from this. Her mind flashed back to her investiture as Imperial Protector. She’d sworn to defend Phillip’s Empire with her life and with her honor. If that was going to be what it took, she would just have to do it; her oath demanded as much.

Major Naran’s fist grasped a handful of her hair at the back of her neck, forcing her back to the grim reality of her situation. “Last chance, Your Highness, or we bring out one of the little ones.” Glancing over his shoulder he nodded to where Annis’s body lay in the moonlight, skirts still pulled up around her. “You’d be surprised how many of the men like them young. Now, look at me.”

Revolted, but unwilling to run the risk of harming the children, Jenevra steeled herself to look into his face. Taking a long breath, she raised her eyes to his; gritting her teeth as she saw the cruel satisfaction he took in his small victory. Submitting to his kiss was the hardest thing she thought she’d ever done. As his thin lips pressed against her mouth, and his tongue forced its way in until she felt as though she would choke, her mind tried to hang on to her ultimate objective—kill Jaiyen, whatever it takes—with my honor and my life—even this.

Reminding her to keep her eyes on him, Major Naran thrust his hand down her shirt, squeezing one breast until it hurt; relishing the humiliation that she couldn’t hide in her eyes. Pinching her nipple, he twisted with his nails until he felt her try to pull away. With a curt instruction to the two men still with him, watching and relishing the princess’s torment, he began to unfasten her trousers, pushing himself against her thigh harder than ever. The soldiers held her shoulders more strongly, each man hooking his lower leg around Jenevra’s in a manner born of practice, pulling her legs apart for their commander.

His pale eyes catching silvered lamplight from the kitchen window, Major Naran had rarely found such satisfaction in threatening a violation. Against all her efforts to remain detached, Jenevra had finally, whisperingly, pleaded with him not to, but he took precious delight in slowly, inch by inch, stroking his hand down across the flat stomach; pushing against the tight fabric of her trousers until his fingers reached and caressed the soft hair between her legs. Catching his breath in anticipation, the Major licked her mouth again, whispering again for her to look at him. Seeing despair visible at last in her eyes, he slid his finger inside her, smothering her mortified protest with his mouth.

As quickly and coldly as he had started, Major Naran pulled away. Leaving her momentarily staggered and shamed, her clothes disheveled; and yet, strangely thankful that he had stopped when he did; the Major raised an eyebrow at her. “Interesting,” he noted, sparingly. “Still a virgin. His Highness will be pleased.” Brushing a hand at his hair he waved lazily at her. “Please, sort your clothes out, Your Highness. We don’t want to go back inside looking like some sluttish peasant girl now, do we?”

With shaking hands, Jenevra began trying to push her shirt back into her trousers. It took her a couple of attempts to get it right, and several more to actually fasten the laces again. She felt sickened and dishonored. She wanted to bathe more than anything; or maybe just throw up.

Major Naran and his men stood watching. Taking strands of her hair and tucking them back behind her ears, Naran smoothed it back with his hand. “There now,” he murmured soothingly. “All neat and tidy.”

“Major Naran?” Prince Cieren’s voice cut clearly across the night. “Are you finished? I really think it’s time we were on our way.”

Straightening Jenevra’s jacket for her, Major Naran pushed her gently out of the shadows towards Cieren. “Her Highness is ready, My Lord,” he announced. “I do believe we’ve reached something of an accord.”

“Splendid,” Cieren clapped his gloved hands together, bending slightly to smile encouragingly at the children. “You’d like to stay with the princess, wouldn’t you?” he asked Tilda, who bounced up and down in excitement. “Then I think we should all go, don’t you?” Walking across to Jenevra, he picked up one of her hands, noting the trembling with a knowing smirk. Raising her hand to his lips, he locked glances with Naran. “Well?”

Naran’s blond head nodded. “Your Highness will be the first.”

A smile twisted Cieren’s mouth as he saw the muscles of her jaw harden and her fingers tighten involuntarily on a knife that was no longer at her side. “Shall we?” He held his arm out to her.

With the three children held in front of Cieren’s soldiers, there was nothing she could safely do, and the company set off through the night to Diruthia.

CHAPTER FORTY

The Menzetti family estate in Southern Maressia Major had stood on its current grounds for at least five centuries. A large well-proportioned house made of the local creamy colored stone, now almost totally covered by trailing branches of laburnum along the lower floor. Rolling green gardens ran down towards a lake built by an earlier Duke who was an avid freshwater fisherman. The sea lay beyond the lake, with high dunes providing a natural sheltering barrier from the strong onshore winds that blew steadily.

Probably the closest thing to a grandmother the princess had ever known, in the short time they had known each other Graea and Jenevra had become very close. Graea was the only other woman accepted into the Order within the last five hundred years, so she understood Jenevra better than the younger woman understood herself. Graea knew the pull of duty, responsibility and love: knew how very young Jenevra was for the actions that had already been required of her. She also understood better than anyone else could, how difficult it was for Jenevra to distinguish between her training on the Island and the life she was being expected to fit into within the Empire.

As the Flights pulled up, Graea waited patiently. Welcoming the Shadow Flight back to Mirizir, Graea greeted each of the men by name; impressing all of the watching men of Tessier’s Flight and Baran’s Guard. Coming to Gavin Logansson, she looked around for his blond twin, Logan. Noting Bernardo’s sad shake of the head, Graea held onto Gavin’s hand, commiserating his loss with him. Leaving Sergeant Brogan to make arrangements for the men to camp in the grounds, Lady Menzetti knew he would work with her own people to have things organized well before several hours had passed. Finally turning to Kian, Prince Baran and Captain Tessier, Graea frowned. “Where’s Jenevra?” she asked.

“She’s here … isn’t she?” Kian stared at his mother.

“I haven’t seen her, Kian.” Graea looked at the three men in a disapproving manner that reminded Baran and Tessier of their own mothers. “Maybe we’d better discuss this inside.” She led the way into a comfortable sitting room overlooking the lawns that ran to the beach, sending a servant to ask around the estate if anyone had seen the princess arrive.

“What makes you think she’s here?” Graea asked pointedly.

“Bernardo said she left Virat early this morning. She said she was coming here. I didn’t think anything of it. I know she was concerned to see you; she wanted to talk to you about something.” Kian rubbed at his chin.

“I’ll go check with Bernardo again,” Tessier offered quickly. A cold dread had settled on him as soon as he’d heard Lady Menzetti say the princess wasn’t there.

“Check down on the beach, Captain Tessier.” Lady Menzetti suggested. “She does like to be down there when she’s agitated about anything.”

Captain Tessier frowned slightly, nodding. “I know she wasn’t quite herself last night. She was definitely upset about something. The beach, you said?”

Baran and Kian were walking quickly to Shadow Flight’s camp area as Blaise returned from the beach. “I can’t see her anywhere down there,” he told them. “Where are you two going?”

“We need to talk to Brogan,” Baran advised him, without slowing his pace.

“Bernardo’s the only one who saw her as far as I can tell,” Sergeant Brogan confirmed, waving at his friend to join them. “Bernardo, are you sure that was all she said to you?”

“I told you, why?”

“Did you talk to her at all? Did she say where she was going?” Kian demanded.

Bernardo shook his head. “Just that she was going to Mirizir.”

Blaise raked his fingers through his hair, worried now that their argument had triggered something more serious with the princess. “She was pretty upset last night. You don’t think she’d have done anything stupid?”

Kian’s nostrils flared angrily. “She doesn’t get upset Tessier, she gets mad. And she’s always doing something stupid. Even on the Island, she got into more trouble than any other trainee I’ve ever seen. That’s why Jaiyen was constantly trying to have her thrown out of the Order.”

Tessier frowned at him. “You really need to give her a break, you know,” he said irritated. “She’s stronger than I ever thought. But she was upset last night … deeply. She was crying, and I didn’t think I’d ever see that.”

“What?” Brogan and Kian spoke at the same time.

“Never,” said Kian.

“The Captain doesn’t cry,” Brogan told him. “I’ve known her for her whole life and I’ve never even seen a hint of tears. Have you, Bernardo?”

The tall man shook his head again. His promise to the princess was weighing heavily on him. Now, hearing the concern in all of these men’s voices for the young girl, Bernardo closed his eyes, trying to hang onto the promise he’d made her.

“Well, she did last night,” Blaise insisted. “So what would have made her that miserable?” He tried to block out the memory of his late night encounter with her. “She wasn’t that upset after she killed Dhorani … why would it get to her now?”

“After she what?” Brogan asked in a disbelieving tone. “Damn it, I knew something was going on!” A bleak look on his face he bellowed across the camp. “Spider! Corrigan! Get here now!” Not noticing the troubled look on Bernardo’s face as he digested this latest revelation, Brogan rounded on the two men who came running up.

“Sergeant!” Baran’s voice overpowered Brogan’s. “There isn’t time now. We can fill you in on the details later; but I’m sure you’ll find they were under orders from the princess not to tell anyone about Mikhail’s death. What we need to do now is find out where she is. Is she safe? Maybe she ran into another Diruthian patrol?”

“You think they could be nearby?” Blaise looked about wildly.

“Wait!” Kian Menzetti laid a hand on Tessier’s arm. “I think we need to go back to the house to have another talk with my mother. There’s something missing in all this, and she has different insights into Jenna.” He glanced at Tessier. “And maybe you can tell us what she was so upset about?”

“She was just in a really odd mood,” Blaise said evasively.

“Then we start with my mother.”

Their discussion lasted far longer than any of them were comfortable with considering the princess still hadn’t been seen anywhere, even though her black horse had turned up in the stables; but no-one remembered him arriving. Kian, Baran and Tessier had sent their men out scouring the countryside for any sign of her, while they tried to figure out what could have happened.

Graea sat quiet and pale as Kian told her everything that had happened on the Island, and since; her eyes haunted.

Blaise, very reluctantly, told them part of what had happened in the House of Dancing Shadows. “I think she’s upset because she thinks I’ll sleep with someone else if she doesn’t …”

“That’s not it, Captain,” Graea corrected him quietly, a single tear tracking down her papery cheek. “I think she really did want you to make love to her.”

“Mother!” Kian snapped at her, exasperated. “How can you possibly think that? She knows her Oath. If she wouldn’t break it for Misha, why would she for him?”

“She would if she didn’t think her Oath was going to matter for much longer.”

“How do you come up with that?” Kian snorted.

“Because she’s gone to find Jaiyen. You said she was injured in the fight with Misha … and then she hurt her hand again yesterday?”

The three men looked at the old woman, horrified doubt in all of their faces.

Graea shrugged lightly. “Jenna’s gone to kill Jaiyen, before I could stop her. That’s why she hasn’t come to Mirizir. And she’s hurt enough that she doesn’t think she’ll survive.”

“Why would you stop her? You know she’s bound to it.” Kian asked.

Graea shook her silvered head at him, laying her hand on his. “No, she’s not. It should be my task, not hers. I don’t know how she knows—I didn’t tell her—but I suspect she’s discovered that Jaiyen was my training partner. She knew I wouldn’t let her go if she came here first, so she’s gone alone. She’s hurt, and she thinks Jaiyen will kill her. Or that Cieren’s men will if she gets close enough to kill Jaiyen. She holds no hope of getting out alive if she finds them. That’s why she wanted you, Captain Tessier. You were the only chance of love she could see before she dies.”

Tessier knelt down next to Graea. “Where has she gone, Lady Menzetti?” he asked the elderly woman gently. “You know I can’t let that happen.”

Placing her frail hands in his, Graea looked into his dark eyes, seeing the deep concern there. “You’re good for her, Captain Tessier.” She smiled through tears. “But I don’t know exactly where she’s gone. In that respect I only know as much as you do.” The old woman turned a stricken face to her son. “Do you know who she is, Kian?”

As the other men looked puzzled at the question, Ki-Nimh took a deep breath. “I’ve suspected … ever since the deaths on the Island. She is the Eligia Shala, isn’t she?”

Lady Menzetti nodded, tears streaming down her face, “I believe so, yes. But she says Dai-Nimh didn’t mention it to her. She’s never heard the term.”

As Kian took his mother’s arm and moved to a corner, where they talked in muted voices, Bernardo appeared at the door to the room they were sitting in. Following his Captain’s last orders to him, he held the Spirit Sword of the Shadow Flight in his hands, with a hastily scribbled note from the princess to Captain Tessier.

It simply read, “Give this to Phillip.”

After seven days of riding, Brogan began to be suspicious. He was quite certain that Bernardo’s tracking skills were as sharp as ever, but there was something edgy about his manner that Brogan couldn’t quite ascribe to his friend’s concern for the princess. And hadn’t they just rounded one end of the Jantaran forest? They were almost at the Abaleine border. Brogan couldn’t understand why they weren’t heading north to Diruthia, but Bernardo wouldn’t lose a trail that badly. Unless it was deliberate. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Brogan knew it for reality.

“Bernardo!” He shouted, galloping to join him at the front of the company.

Bernardo turned to see what the Sergeant was shouting about. One look at Brogan’s face and he knew he’d been caught out. The guilty expression on his face told Brogan everything he’d been about to ask.

“Which way did she go, Bernardo?” Brogan said in a deceptively mild manner.

Recalling his promise to the princess sadly, Bernardo lifted his arm and pointed east. If he’d known she was injured, he would never have agreed to let her go on her own, even if he’d been the one to go with her.

“Really?” Brogan pulled his horse around and signaled to Tessier, Baran and Kian. “We’re going west.”

“But he just said east,” Tessier objected. He had been fairly quiet since he had been given the Spirit Sword. Knowing she trusted him with the sword gave him a little hope, if they could just find her in time.

“Captain Tessier, trust me.” Brogan grinned. “Our devious little Princess has done it again. If I’m not mistaken, Bernardo here has promised her he’ll lead us in the wrong direction. All we have to do is go in the opposite direction and we’ll find where she really is … right, Bernardo?”

“She said I could tell you it was an order,” the tall man said resignedly. “But I can’t break my promise, Brogan—not to her, you know that.”

“No need to, my friend. I should have realized earlier … as soon as you said you’d spoken to her. You keep on pointing us in the wrong direction and we’ll just keep on being smarter than you. She can’t object to that.”

With a relieved smile, Bernardo swung his horse around. “Well, let’s pick up the pace a bit then, shall we?”

“Ralta?” Kian’s expression was quizzical, but as they entered the large port town, leaving Baran’s personal guard and Tessier’s squadron camped a little distance outside the walls, he led the Shadow Flight, Baran and Tessier directly to the harbor. Looking around, he saw what he was apparently looking for and rode towards a large inn on the edge of the quay. “Let the men mix in amongst the locals,” he advised. “They might just hear something useful. We’ll go on inside…the innkeeper here should be helpful.” Kian shrugged at Brogan’s enquiring glance. “Let’s just say he knows the Order.” Sitting at a large table near the fireplace, the men waited for the innkeeper to bustle across to them, a tray full of brimming tankards balanced on his hand.

“Greetings, gentlemen: ale for you all?” Remiel began depositing the drinks on the table. “Long journey? Will you be needing rooms?”

Kian motioned outside with his head. “Those are our men out there,” he said. “They’ll be requiring ale, and something to eat. We’ll be paying for it all.” He deposited a handful of coins onto Remiel’s tray, a small token identical to the one Jenevra had used among them.

Remiel went pale as he saw it and, quickly finishing setting the ale down, made to move away from the table.

Kian grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?” he hissed. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize that token! Have you seen another one recently: maybe from someone unexpected?”

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Remiel blustered, a light sheen of nervous sweat breaking out on his bald head. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turned to move away, but found Baran Wargentin’s intimidating bulk in front of him.

Placing an arm across the innkeeper’s shoulders, Baran said mildly, “We’d really appreciate it if you’d join us in a drink.” The pressure from Baran’s arm pushed Remiel onto the bench, sandwiched between Tessier and Baran; Kian, Bernardo and Brogan glaring at him from the opposite side of the table.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Baran smiled tightly at Remiel. “Now we can talk. Carry on Kian.”

“What is your name?” Kian asked.

Remiel told him, visibly shaken at their treatment.

“Remiel … I know you’ve seen another token like this recently. It was in your eyes. We’re looking for the person who was carrying it.”

The innkeeper shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted.

“Ho, Remiel, Fara! More ale over here!” Another table of locals was running dry. “Remiel, come on! The service around here is terrible,” a chorus of broad laughs went up.

“You need Coretta back here, my friend!” one of the men shouted across at Fara, busy trying to pour ale behind the counter. “This place isn’t the same without her.”

Bernardo’s eyes narrowed and he strolled across to the rowdy group. Putting a few coins on the table, he nodded at them. “Buy you gentlemen a drink?”

Welcoming him with open arms and empty flagons, the men made a space for Bernardo and yelled across at Fara for another tankard for their newest friend.

“You’re here too late, my friend,” one of the men said mournfully, raising a foamy nose from his fresh pot of ale to hoots of amusement from his friends. “The service and entertainment around here has disappeared lately—ever since that idiot noble chased her away.”

“Typical nobles,” another man slapped his beer down angrily. “Always thinking of their own pleasures. Not a thought for the lives they ruin. And her as pretty as a spring morning too.” He shook his head despondently.

“Her?” Bernardo asked.

“Coretta … Remiel’s niece.” The foamy nosed man supplied. “Lovely girl. No sooner here that she had to run off again—bloody nobles.”

The group all subsided into mumbling again.

“Special then, this wench, was she?”

“You have no idea.” A short squat man with long drooping moustaches pointed his finger at Bernardo. “Made you smile just to see her bring your ale, it did. And she could tell a story like you’ve never heard.”

“Oh, those stories; you’ve never heard them told like she could,” agreed foamy nose. “I tell you—” he belched and peered at Bernardo blearily. “I don’t look at the sky the same way anymore.”

“The sky? Did she happen to tell you stories about the stars, my friends?” A grin was appearing on Bernardo’s face now.

“Tha’s right,” foamy nose finally pulled his sleeve across his face removing the object of amusement. “How do you know that? Have you seen her? Is she coming back?” He raised his voice to bellow across at Remiel, still wedged between the Prince and the Captain. “Remiel, he knows Coretta! Maybe he can persuade her to come back!”

Bernardo slapped the fellow on the shoulder, walking back to Brogan and the others. “Not too many young women who can hold a room spellbound with stories of the stars,” he said blandly.

A broad grin appeared on Brogan’s face. “That there aren’t, Bernardo. Where is she, Remiel?”

The burly innkeeper folded his arms and looked stubborn.

“What is wrong with you?” demanded Kian. “I showed you the token. You know the Order, the sign outside says so. I know the Nimh’a’s been here, so why aren’t you telling us where she’s gone?”

“I’ll have your names first,” Remiel snapped, folding his arms defiantly. “She was avoiding someone. I’ll tell you nothing until I know you’re not the one.” He looked outside, nodding his head towards one of the men. “She left with him, so I don’t know why you’re even pretending you don’t know where she is.”

“What?” Tessier’s patience was being stretched just a little too far. “Who did she leave with? When? Why?”

“Name?” Remiel insisted, doggedly.

“Tessier.”

“Not Pichot?”

“No! Why? What’s Pichot got to do with anything?”

“Then you know this Pichot?” Remiel looked on them with increasing hostility.

“Yes, I know him.” Tessier replied, a smile of remembrance breaking through. “I usually have to keep him away from her. She hates him.”

Remiel relaxed a little. “She does.”

“So she has been here?” Kian pushed.

Remiel nodded. “But she left with him, the Labrian.” He pointed through the window at Farid Jatar.

Calling Farid into the inn, Brogan stood him in front of Remiel. “You’re absolutely sure it was this man she left with?”

“If it wasn’t him, it was his twin brother,” Remiel said. “They took his ship out yesterday, early morning. I think they were heading north.”

“Diruthia,” Brogan confirmed what they were all thinking.

“Him!” exclaimed Remiel, gesturing frantically towards a figure walking along the harbor. “That’s him!” He stopped, and looked at Farid. “So, it wasn’t you?”

Farid’s face was like flint as the newcomer strode into the inn, greeting them all with the traditional Labrian palms to heart gesture.

Faris stood in front of them, just a shade slighter in build than his brother. “Which of you is Sergeant Brogan?”

Startled, Brogan stepped forward. “I am.” He glanced between the two men. “You are related?”

Farid nodded brusquely, his face a mask.

Dismissing that problem for later, Brogan turned his attention to Faris, who handed him a packet. “From your Emperor,” he said, unnecessarily as the seal was evident. “A man I find I like. Our countries may have more communications in the future.” He turned to Farid. “Brother.”

Farid’s dark eyes were expressionless. “Where is the princess?”

Faris rubbed his hands together, a deep smile creasing his eyes. “She is where she wanted to be. I merely helped her on her journey. The Emperor offered her to me as a wife, but I do not think she would be happy in our country. She finds it difficult to observe the proper behavior … or to keep quiet.”

“He did what?” Tessier spluttered indignantly. “I don’t believe it! She’s an Imperial Princess.”

“And I am a Labrian Prince,” Faris demurred smoothly. “She would be a worthy bride for me.”

“Worthy!” Tessier nearly choked.

“I don’t believe this!” Brogan said. “The Emperor wants us back in Salanova.”

“We can’t go back now,” Tessier objected. “She’s only a day or so ahead of us. We have to keep going.”

Brogan shook his head slowly. “No, Captain, the Emperor expresses himself very clearly on that point. Your squadron and Shadow Flight are to return to Salanova immediately on receiving these orders. There seems to be something going on within the palace, though. We’re under orders not to discuss anything with Captain Pichot upon our return. Curious.” He glanced at the sheet in his hand again. “Any deviation to these instructions will be considered treason.”

“I thought you’d already done that by not obeying Commander Rabenaldt’s orders from Mirizir?” Baran observed cheerfully. “Anyway, the Emperor’s orders didn’t mention me did they? Why don’t I just follow the princess and you can all go see what’s bothering the Emperor? Where did you say she went?” He looked at Faris.

“I didn’t.” The Prince gazed coolly back at him. “Brother, we must talk.” He swept away to a small table in the corner.

Farid glared at him for a moment, before following. Within moments they were in a heated discussion conducted in their own language.

Leaving his ship to make its way back up the coast to the Marestin River, Faris joined the Flight on horseback for the journey to Salanova. Riding next to his brother, they made an impressive pair.

“Prince Farid?” Gervaise D’Agostino queried. “And this is your brother? Tell me, Jatar, does that mean that you actually lied when you said you had no family?”

Farid glowered at him. “I do not lie. I am dead to my family, and they to me.”

Staring pointedly at Faris, D’Agostino pushed the issue. “Doesn’t look like you’re dead to him. He keeps talking to you. Or is that some weird Labrian custom you forgot to mention?”

Heading up the west side of the Coural mountains they made good time; cutting through the mountains along the banks of the Marestin River towards Salanova. Prince Baran was still with them; waiting to talk to Phillip before he made serious plans to follow the princess.

Conscious of his missing Captain’s orders, Brogan halted the Flight just outside the city, making sure everyone smartened up; forming them into two columns to ride in as she would want them to.

Captain Tessier had no such hesitation and thundered his squadron into their barracks at a rapid pace, causing mayhem through the main market areas of Salanova as they tore through the city. Leaving his troops to care for their horses, eat and rest, the Captain headed into the Palace, dusty and disheveled from his journey.

Arriving at the council chamber somewhat cleaner and tidier than before; Blaise was taken aback to see Commander Rabenaldt already there with the Emperor and Baran. Groaning inwardly, he saluted briefly and took his seat.

Brogan hesitated in a similarly worried fashion as he entered the room and spotted his former Commander glaring at him. Before he could take his place, Raik’s patience ran out as he bounded to his feet, slamming his fists on the table.

“A squadron, a Flight, and your entire personal guard?” He bellowed at Tessier, Brogan and Prince Baran. “And you still can’t keep track of a nineteen year old girl? I should have you all hung. What the hell happened down there?” He directed the last comment directly at Brogan, who looked absolutely stricken.

“Commander Rabenaldt,” Phillip interrupted, seeing Raik taking another deep breath ready to start on them all again. “Commander! Sit down please. I called you all back here because of information I have received about a soon to be attempted attack on the Palace and myself.” He held his hand up to prevent the questions and protests already forming. “I trust the information, gentlemen, and you are recalled to counteract the rebels—one of whom should be joining us soon.”

The others looked at each other puzzled.

“My cousin is fine, you’ll be thrilled to hear. Shut up Tessier—she’s fine. We’ll be talking about that more later.” He glared at Tessier whose relief was evident. “She is currently on a mission for me. She has, in fact, been following orders for most of her recent activities … although the whole incident with Mikhail Dhorani was a bit unexpected to be honest. Despite her wishes to the contrary, I’m going to send her Flight on after her; just to make sure we get her back in one piece, so you can relax Sergeant Brogan. Maybe even part of your Border Patrol too, Commander. I’m still thinking that one over.” Standing and walking over to the window, Phillip turned around, the light framing him from behind, catching the golden trim on his black clothing. “Prince Baran, much as I appreciate your help, I really think you should head back to Lorthia for a while. I believe your wife is expecting her child soon? You should be there.”

“Tessier, your Flight will be arriving here in the next day or so. You’ll be commanding them right here. Don’t bother arguing, Captain: it’s an order. You were never going after my cousin.” Phillip said dryly. “She doesn’t need you distracting her right now.”

The door opened and Captain Pichot entered the room, a little taken aback at the group already there. Recovering quickly, he greeted the other officers, Prince Baran and his Emperor politely, taking the seat that Phillip was waving him to.

“Thank you for joining us, Captain,” Phillip said; a curiously cold gleam in his eye. “I was just discussing our need to reassess our security measures around the Palace. I thought it pertinent to your current assignment.”

Reiff Pichot merely bowed his head slightly in acquiescence.

“I had a report, yesterday, of an attempt that will be made on my life, and to take the Palace. Apparently, someone from my own guard was overheard discussing these plans with an emissary from a recent thorn in the Imperial side.”

“Corros?” Raik’s gray eyes locked on Phillip.

Phillip nodded, while waggling his hand from side to side. “He’s involved peripherally, we think. This seems to be more particularly the work of the son, Cieren. The young Prince seems to have ambitions of his own. Diruthia being too small to contain him, it appears he feels the need to annex the Empire … my Empire to spread out in.” Smiling benignly, Phillip waved his hands airily. “Well, I’m sure you can see gentlemen, I simply cannot permit that to happen. The Diruthians are planning on attacking us here within the next week, assuming—as they were supposed to—that you were all distributed throughout the Empire where it would take too long to reassemble you. Should they arrive now, it will be to the full might of the massed Imperial War Host. A nice little twist I thought.”

“So will Corros come with his son?” Baran asked, leaning forward on the table. “He’s been fairly outspoken against the Empire recently. I suppose there’s always the chance that Alexander of Abalos-Colles will join with them too now that the princess has killed his son.”

“What?” Pichot blurted.

“Keep up, Captain,” Phillip snapped. “Mikhail Dhorani made the mistake of joining with Prince Cieren and some renegade from the Order. We all witnessed his attack on the Imperial Protector the night she was invested. Apparently he wasn’t quite finished with that, and Captain Couressime merely dispensed some Imperial justice on my behalf. I have written to Aleksander regarding his son’s misguided treachery. I hope that will manage to forestall any move he might make.”

“So, what about the traitor in the Guard?” Raik reminded the Emperor. “You said someone was overheard making these plans.”

“Ah, yes … I did.” Phillip gave a grim smile and walked to the heavy door. Looking out he called to someone and Prince Faris entered the room with two guards behind him. “Prince Faris of Labria. I believe you know most of the men here. Haven’t met this one before though, have you?”

“Captain Pichot?” Prince Faris looked at him with distaste. “Yes,” he said to Phillip after taking a good look at Reiff Pichot. “That’s him.”

“Your Majesty!” Pichot scrambled angrily to his feet. “I must object. How can this foreigner accuse me of anything? He’s never seen me before!”

“On the contrary, Pichot,” Phillip’s dark eyes were hard as granite. “Not only do I trust his word, he was also with someone else who knows you only too well…at a tavern in Ralta several nights ago. You really need to choose your meeting places more carefully—and your partners.” Phillip snapped his fingers at the guards. “Take Captain Pichot down to the dungeon we picked earlier. Make sure he has nothing on him he can harm himself with. I’d hate to think anything would happen to him before we could have a proper trial.”

The guards took strong hold of Captain Pichot, who was struggling furiously now, still vehemently protesting his innocence.

“Pichot,” Phillip grabbed hold of the front of his jacket. “Jenevra was there. Not only did she see you, she heard every word you uttered. If it comes down to who I believe, who I trust, she’ll win every time.” He dropped his hands from Pichot, wiping them as if soiled.

“But Majesty, she’s always hated me. You know that!”

“She’ll be unbearable now,” Tessier observed. “She’s always thought he was guilty of something—now he actually is. Do you think she’ll want to take him apart in trial by combat?” he added hopefully.

“You won’t see your precious Princess again,” Pichot snarled suddenly, stopping struggling to glare at them all with hatred. “They know she’ll make sure those children at the inn are safe first.”

Brogan moved faster than anyone could have predicted, holding his knife to Reiff Pichot’s throat. “What are you talking about?”

Knowing he was doomed anyway, Pichot couldn’t resist jeering. “The inn where the children are, sergeant: the ones from Albor. Thought nobody knew about them, didn’t you? Thought you’d all been so clever. Prince Cieren’s going to be waiting for the princess there. He’s got a surprise or two for her himself. And then, you won’t be holding out for long when he’s bargaining with you over her body.”

“On the contrary,” Phillip said coldly. “Jenevra knows exactly what’s at stake. That’s the mistake everyone keeps making. None of you understand. The Empire comes first … even over her. She’ll die before letting me give this Empire over to Cieren. And I will accept that sacrifice if it comes to it.”

“You don’t mean that,” Pichot said cynically.

“Wrong again,” the young Emperor said with a faint smile. “My cousin is a member of the Order, Pichot. The last instruction she received from her Master in the Order was to defend the Empire—even if she has to die to do it. She doesn’t accept any option on that. Stop Cieren or die. It’s that simple, and she’s just about achieved that anyway by bringing your plans to me.”

“Then she will die,” said Pichot scornfully. “Saifullah will take care of that.”

“Take him away!” Phillip waved, his disgust with the man overcoming his need to wipe the smug look off Pichot’s face. “What is it?” He asked Faris, who was looking thoughtful.

“I’m not sure,” the Labrian Prince said. “Something about that name … if you will excuse me, I must find my brother?”

Phillip turned back to the men in the room. “So, now you know. Jenn overheard Pichot in the inn at Ralta. He was to take over the Palace from the inside, probably holding me hostage for a while until you all surrendered; then killing me. She was not very happy with him. She’s on her way to kill Cieren too if she can; at the very least to try to stop him meeting with Corros.”

Brogan was white-faced. “So she didn’t tell you about Jaiyen? Or her injuries?”

Phillip stared at Brogan, his dark brows drawing together angrily. “Injuries? No, she didn’t mention—. Who is Jaiyen?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll have a long talk with my cousin when she’s safely back here.”

Brogan quickly explained the bare details of Jenevra’s mission to kill Jaiyen, and her belief that she wouldn’t survive the journey. Glancing across at his Emperor’s face, Brogan saw Phillip torn between anger and concern. “If she goes through Bortka, and Cieren reaches those children first …” Brogan didn’t need to finish the sentence.

Phillip nodded. “Commander, will you take your Border Patrol with them?”

Raik disagreed. “You need everyone you can get here, Phillip. If her Flight can’t get Jenn out, a bigger force isn’t going to do it.” His distraction was evident in his informality.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?” Baran asked Phillip. “My guard can add to your numbers.”

“No need really, Prince Baran,” Phillip said. “Go and check on your wife. Let’s make sure something good’s happening in the middle of all this!” He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Unless you’d like to volunteer to tell my mother and my wife what’s going on?”

“Now that you mention it, Your Majesty, I do seem to have been away from home rather too long,” Baran said with a grin. He wandered out of the room, pausing only briefly for a quiet word with Tessier.

“Brogan, go organize Shadow Flight,” Phillip instructed. “I know they could do with some rest but …”

“They won’t rest with the princess out there—and the children.” Brogan shook his head again.

“Right, go!” Phillip dismissed the rest of them, turning his attention to Captain Tessier. “So, Tessier, what have you been doing to my cousin? She’s not herself you know.”

“You actually saw her?” Blaise leaned back, sighing in relief, a small smile on his lips. “She’s killing me, you know?” He hesitated, trying to assess how much his Emperor might actually be aware of. He’d always been on friendly terms with Phillip and the Couressimes, but this felt just a little different. “With your permission, I’d like to marry her, Your Majesty. I know she’s an Imperial Princess and you probably have other plans for her, like Prince Faris!” A shadow crossed his face. “But I really do love her. And I’m working on her loving me, I think.”

“You think?” Phillip grinned. “You know, Blaise, the two of you need to try talking to each other. You ‘think’ she loves you. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know what she thinks right now; but then she’s never really been anywhere near being in love before. I’ll be interested to see if you can persuade her.”

“You’re not saying ‘no’ then?” Tessier’s face brightened.

“Correct, Captain. But I’m not saying ‘yes’ either … not yet.” Phillip turned his head as the sound of running feet pounded in the hallway outside, drawing nearer. “We’d better just see if she can get back safely first.”

Faris burst into the chamber, followed by Farid. “Your Majesty,” Faris gasped. “We know who, or rather, what Saifullah is!”

“Sit!” Phillip commanded.

Farid paced impatiently. “Captain Pichot definitely used the name Saifullah?”

Both Tessier and Phillip nodded.

Farid’s face went still, and he began speaking quickly and quietly. “It is an old name, not used very often in our country now. It is more of a title really, rather than a name. Literally, it is “sword of God”, but it means the Captain is in serious trouble if they catch her.” Catching their questioning looks, Farid drew a breath. “A Saifullah is an expert in a particular form of torture. They are trained in using tiny, razor sharp knives, which they use to create a pattern along their victim’s backbone. It’s called the serpent, because the process is excruciating and usually kills the victim. If they can survive the actual pain of the process itself, they also have to do so without flinching and causing the knife to jump into their spine. The knives scrape along lots of the nerve endings along the spine … apparently.” He looked at them both, eyes hard. “Most of their victims die or are permanently paralyzed. Very few survive. The practice has been outlawed in our lands, but we know it is still practiced among the highland tribes. It is possible Prince Cieren has found one. If Jaiyen knew of someone, he might have made the contact for him. Either way, I hate to think of the Captain encountering one of these men. They feel no remorse for their victim.”

Even knowing the princess’s resistance to pain, Tessier felt suddenly sick. He looked at Phillip, a question in his eyes that didn’t have time to form into words.

“Go tell Raik to stay here, Blaise,” Phillip said, drawing a shaky breath. Even though he knew she would be furious at his sentimentality, the prospect of his small cousin being tortured to death was more than he could contemplate when he’d just been talking of the possibility of her falling in love for the first time. “I can’t afford to lose all of my officers chasing after my cousin. Her Flight’s not big enough to make a difference here. Take them, go find her—and don’t bother coming back without her!”

“We can take my ship,” Faris said. “It will be quicker.”

“Can we take the healer with us … Wynn?”

“Take whoever, whatever you need, Tessier. Just get her back.”

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

The ride into Diruthia could have been pleasant. Summer was deep now and the skies stayed clear as they traveled. Cieren hadn’t bothered tying the princess’s hands. As he persisted in pointing out, he still had the children; she wasn’t going anywhere. He’d talked to her as they rode along, trying to goad her about the deaths of Misha, Colin and Annis. “Jaiyen is really looking forward to a nice long talk with you about Misha. He seems to think you did something wrong there. He’s not awfully happy with you. But, I get the feeling that’s not unusual.”

As with most of his comments, Jenevra refused to take the bait, her mind occupied with wondering how she was going to get the children away from this. She knew she still had a weapon on her, but when she would have the chance to use it … that was the problem. Just getting herself away wouldn’t be too much of a challenge, but she wouldn’t leave the children behind, not now: not even to save herself.

The weather was warm and Prince Cieren allowed the two small girls to curl up next to the princess when they stopped for the night. As usual, the princess slept little. Not only did she want to keep her eyes on the little ones, she also didn’t want to fall into one of her nightmares in front of the Prince. Tallis was kept by the men, but she had managed to throw him several reassuring glances. Several times she had noticed the young boy on the verge of trying to break away, and had caught his eye in time to stop him. She knew the men they were traveling with would hurt any of them with very little compunction.

In the middle of the night, as a light breeze blew through the trees they were camped under, Major Naran walked across the camp, his footfall covered by the rustling leaves. “Prince Cieren would appreciate a moment of your time, Your Highness.” He held his hand out courteously to her, his smile twisting cynically as she glared at him and pushed to her feet, ignoring the gesture.

Tucking her cloak over the two girls, Jenevra followed Major Naran a little way through the trees to where Prince Cieren was waiting. Meeting his arrogant gaze steadily, she stood silently, not willing to give him the satisfaction of thinking she was nervous.

“Ah, Jenevra, how nice of you to come,” Cieren lifted her hand to his lips, noting the involuntary twitch as if she wanted to hit him with it. Sharing a smile with Major Naran as the princess remained silent, Cieren moved around her, lifting her long braid into his hand as he passed behind her; stroking the soft end of it against his face. Standing in front of her, so closely that she could feel his breath on her face, Cieren spoke softly. “I think, Major Naran, I’d like to see how well the princess learned her lessons.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Naran’s smooth voice agreed, his long fingers grasping Jenevra’s shoulders, pulling her back against himself. Sliding one arm across the front of her neck, he raised her head to look at the Prince. Drawing his tongue up the side of her neck before chewing on her earlobe, Naran tightened his grip. “My men have been on the road too long, Princess. They’re ready for a little sport,” he reminded her.

Cieren removed his coat, and the white stock he kept neatly tied about his throat. Pushing Naran’s arm lightly out of the way, he slid his hand around the base of Jenevra’s throat, feeling the fluttering pulse under his touch. Leaning forward, he slid a hand around her waist, pulling her closer to him. Naran didn’t loosen his grip, just stepped closer so that she could feel both of them pushing against her. As Cieren lowered his mouth onto hers, chewing on her lower lip, licking her lips as Naran had done previously. Naran sank his mouth into the soft flesh at the base of her neck.

Jenevra stiffened, trying to push one or the other of them away, blindly.

“Oh dear, oh dear, Princess,” Naran chuckled. “What have you done?” He held onto her tightly while he looked at his Prince. “Which of the little ones should it be?”

Cieren stood back, watching Jenevra’s face as she realized what was going to happen now. He lifted his hand, looking pensive. Stroking Jenevra’s hair, he said, “I don’t think that will be necessary, Major. I think our guest has just remembered what’s best for her … and for the children. Haven’t you, Princess?” He smiled as she nodded. “Although, should we need to, I think maybe the boy would be best, don’t you?”

“You are wisdom personified as always, my Prince,” Naran acknowledged, tugging the princess back within his grasp. “Now, where were we?”

Jenevra’s mind reeled as the two men mauled her: Cieren pressing himself against her front, pausing frequently to ask for pointers from Naran, purposely to humiliate her. As Cieren’s hand slipped up her shirt and found a breast to fondle, Naran’s hand came from behind, sliding down her shirt in quest of the other. While Cieren’s mouth and tongue explored her neck and throat, Naran pulled her head back to thrust his tongue into her mouth again and again. Wrenching her shirt up, Cieren exposed her breasts to the cool evening air, grasping both, as Naran held her head, ordering her to look into the Prince’s eyes. Before he could go further, one of the soldiers came crashing through the bushes with news that a small patrol had been spotted on the road.

“What a shame, Your Highness,” Cieren turned back to Jenevra, still held in Naran’s grip. “It looks as though we’ll have to postpone our fun until later. Still, I’m sure that little taste of what’s to come has only whetted your appetite.” He kissed her, and turned away. “I know it has mine.”

Midday, the following day, the party split: one group heading west towards the Diruthian capital; the princess, Prince Cieren and the children riding north along the Diruthian east coast with Major Naran and the remaining half of the soldiers.

“Not going to Revka, Your Highness?” Jenevra questioned, a little surprised. “Won’t your father be expecting you by now?”

“Why should I care what my father wants?” Cieren responded acidly. “Or share you with him? He’s old and weak.” He glanced across at the princess, a malicious smirk emerging. “We’re going to my home, Princess … Fetu-Vallis.”

Prince Cieren’s home was a complete surprise. Where she had been expecting some grim overpowering edifice in granite and damp moss, Jenevra found an attractive circular form castle constructed out of a similar yellow stone to Lady Menzetti’s home at Mirizir. The building itself looked well-kept and solid, although the small town that sprawled at the foot of the hill was squalid by comparison; ramshackle houses, more derelict than whole, and miserable looking people with hopeless eyes. The high peaks of Diruthia rose to the left and behind, the sea to the right; leaving the castle protected from three sides. Riding into the keep, she was disappointed to see sturdy, oak doors swing shut behind them, barred by a huge piece of wood that took three hulking men to lift. The only thing she had spotted on the way in was a small trail leading down the slope that seemed to come from the back of the castle. She hadn’t seen any other entrance, but she hoped there might be something, some way out.

The halls were spacious and well-lit, with large brightly colored tapestries on the walls. The main rooms seemed to have large rugs on the floors rather than the rushes she’d been expecting. Cieren opened the door to one room and ushered the children inside. “Say goodbye to the princess for a little while, children: I need to talk to her.”

Surprising her again, he allowed her to hug each of the children briefly, standing quietly as she murmured reassuring words to each of them. She held Tallis’s hand briefly, patting his arm and holding him tightly for a moment. As the door swung shut and was locked by a guard, a feeling of trepidation began to grow. However civilized Cieren was playing at being there was no doubt that they were prisoners.

Opening another door farther along the same hallway, he held the door as she walked inside. Another large airy room; this one with table, chairs, food and wine ready, and a large bed she noted with a slight twinge of panic. Closing the door behind them, Cieren gestured to the table. “Please help yourself.”

A guard knocked on the door and spoke briefly to the Prince. “You will excuse me, Your Highness?” Cieren smiled. “I’m sure you understand there are affairs I must take care of. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.” He left the room with a shallow bow.

Alone in the room, Jenevra took the opportunity to check the possibilities for escape from the window. The walls were almost completely smooth, much to her disgust. Possibly she or Spider might be able to find hand and foot holds on them, although it would be tough even for them she realized with a frown. There was no way the children could climb down those walls. Looking along from her room she could just see the window of the room the children were in. Below it the ground came up a little higher, making the distance from the window to ground considerably less than on most other parts of the castle walls. It wasn’t much, but it might make a difference if she could just find a way to get to them.

As the night drew in, she remained alone; wondering when Cieren or Jai-Nimh would make their appearance. Knowing they were stalling precisely in order to increase her anxiety didn’t really help, but she settled for meditating lightly as a form of rest. She didn’t want to give them the advantage of catching her fully asleep. The night passed. Most of the following day crawled by too, with only an occasional check from a guard and one servant replenishing the untouched food and drink still on the table.

Late in the afternoon Prince Cieren paid her a visit. Unlike most men Jenevra knew, Cieren was rarely out of full formal Court attire; long satin and silk coats and shirts with high collars and elaborate braiding and embroidery. Today was no exception; even in his own home the Prince liked to keep everyone aware of his eminent position. His sandy hair fell onto the shoulders of a light turquoise coat impeccably cut of heavy damask, reflecting his pale eyes. He dropped a pair of dove gray gloves onto the table as he entered, brows rising in sarcastic amusement as he saw the princess facing him still in the same dusty clothes she’d traveled in. “Why don’t you let me take your jacket, Princess?” Cieren extended an immaculately manicured hand, a large ruby ring winking dully in the dying light.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Jenevra folded her arms.

Cieren walked up to her, smiling mildly. “Oh, it wasn’t really a request, Princess. Take the jacket off.” His hand caught her arm as she began to back away. “Surely you don’t want me to start hurting those sweet children already, Princess?”

Taking a long slow breath, hoping he wouldn’t notice her need to calm herself, Jenevra began to unwind the long sash she used to keep her jacket closed. Dropping the sash into Cieren’s hand, she shrugged her shoulders out of the jacket and gave that to him too.

Cieren’s blue-green eyes narrowed in frustration as he saw the thin silk shirt she wore underneath the jacket. “That too,” he snapped his fingers at her.

“No.” Jenevra said flatly.

“Yes,” Cieren pulled a knife from his belt. “I think so, Princess.” He slit the front of the shirt open, unfazed by the flash of anger in her eyes. Sliding the knife back into his belt, Cieren wrenched the shirt from her shoulders, pulling her towards him as he did so. In a split second she had his knife at his throat, forcing him to sit on the edge of the large bed, using her sash to tie him to the bedpost. Snatching up her shirt she slipped it on, knotting it hastily in the front as she moved towards the door. “Well, it’s been lovely, Your Highness, but I’m afraid I’ve just remembered a pressing engagement,” she said, pulling the heavy door open.

“Oh, how very disappointing.” Jai-Nimh’s voice came from behind her as he grabbed hold of her wrist tightly, twisting the arm behind her and knocking the knife away. Pushing her back into the room, and into the grip of two of the six large, heavily armed men who had arrived with him, his serene face smiled almost benevolently at her. “We still have the small matter of Misha-Nimh between us, I think,” he pointed at the red cords still tied around her left wrist.

Jenevra shook her head. “No. These are for you—from Graea. Misha died by my hand, as was right. You’ll be pleased to know that Ki-Nimh is doing well.”

Jaiyen’s eyes reflected a sudden flash, gone so quickly she couldn’t really be sure she’d seen it. “Do I really need to send one of these fine gentlemen to take sweet little Tilda for a view of the battlements … or maybe just a tour of the barracks?” Jaiyen laughed lightly as the princess gritted her teeth. “I see Misha managed to get you. You seem to have forgotten everything I taught you about how to block,” he said, pointing towards the wounds still clearly visible on her body as the guards pulled her across to where Cieren was tied to the post, her shirt caught up as she struggled against them. “I always said you weren’t as good as they all thought you were.”

“The only reason that’s there,” she retorted, “Is that I allowed Misha to trap his sword in me. That’s when I took his head.”

“You see,” Jaiyen explained patiently to Cieren, untying him as he spoke. “This is why I told you not to be alone with her. She is far more devious than you have yet learned to be.” Pushing Jenevra onto the bed, he tied her tightly to the bedpost in Cieren’s place.

Cieren glowered sulkily; glaring at Jenevra as the cause of his lecture. “Is he here?” he asked Jaiyen. “Where are we doing this?”

Jaiyen lifted his shoulders lightly. “Wherever you want to. It’s only a slightly messy procedure. It depends on whether you prefer to watch a master at work, or the princess here.” He slid his fingers into Jenevra’s heavy braid, pulling her head back. “You did remember to check this for weapons?”

Cieren sighed again. “No, I forgot. I’ll do it now.” He pulled out the thong that tied the braid and raked his fingers through her hair until it was completely unbraided, falling in its thick mass down her back. “Wonderful hair, though,” he murmured; his face close to hers. “Wonderful.” Grabbing the back of her neck he planted a kiss on her lips, the ring cutting her cheek as he slammed his fist across her face in anger when she tried to turn her head away.

Jaiyen’s expression was bland. “Saifullah has arrived, Cieren. You should really go and welcome him yourself. The princess and I have matters to discuss now; before she becomes too … incapacitated.”

“Why don’t you just get on with it?” Jenevra said coolly, as Cieren left the room, the two guards trailing after him. “Just kill me and take the talisman. I really don’t care anymore.”

Jaiyen pulled a chair up, sitting facing her. “You know it’s not about the talismans, Jenna. They’re simply a tool. They don’t have any real power in themselves, except that they brought you here. But you know that.” His pale eyes regarded her steadily. “You know why we’re here, Jenna. The end of the Order. With luck, the end of the Empire too. At least, the end of your Empire. What is the point of having the skills they teach on the Island if you can never use the power they give you? Just sitting on the Island telling stories isn’t exactly fulfilling your potential, is it? Admit it, you felt it too? You didn’t want to be trapped there forever. You’re too wild.”

“You are so wrong, Jaiyen,” Jenevra said softly. “I wished I could stay there forever. I’ve never been happier.”

“Bah!” Jaiyen stood up, brushing her comment aside contemptuously. “You simply liked being the center of attention: the girl who could do no wrong in the eyes of Dai-Nimh.”

“So why did I have to answer to the Master’s Council every week? If I could do no wrong, why did I spend hours justifying myself?” Anger flashed again as Jenevra remembered all the times she had stood in front of the Masters at this man’s insistence on her unsuitability for the Order.

“Because there is no place for women in the Order!” Jaiyen snapped. “I never hid my opposition …”

“Even when I proved I was better than most of them. Yes, I remember that too.” She was past hiding her disdain now; cold fury beginning to assert itself as she began to sense the futile stupidity behind the past few weeks; the deaths … so pointless.

“Better?” A vicious gleam lit his eyes. “We’ll see about that. Just consider this in the small amount of time you have left; the Order you know is finished. The Diruthian army is on its way to attack Salanova and the Emperor will already be dead by the time they reach it. Everything you thought you were helping to protect will be gone. And that’s only the beginning. Remember this, Princess—if you had turned and walked away from the Island any of the times I gave you the chance, none of this would have happened. Every death is on your hands. Dai-Nimh is dead because of you. Misha is dead because of you. Quite literally in his case. Every man on the Island died because of you; because you wouldn’t leave. Your family will be extinguished soon, because you couldn’t lay your own pride aside to save them. You’ll lose everything you ever cared about.” He walked to the door. “But very soon you will break. You will deny the Order; and every single death will be meaningless: your ultimate failure. I’m looking forward to that part.”

Beginning to struggle against the tied sash that was holding her as soon as the door shut behind him, Jenevra held back a small grin of triumph. So, he still didn’t know that Pichot had been caught? Things were still hopeful for the Empire; although not so much for her if she couldn’t get herself and the children out of this place. Wriggling one arm free she quickly extricated herself from the sash and moved over to the door. Surprised to find it unlocked, she opened it and peered out into the wide hallway. The single guard outside her room fell pole-axed as she used her three fingered throat jab, followed by a quick twist to break his neck. Whilst mentally deploring Cieren’s security measures, she wasn’t about to waste an opportunity, and dragged him along the corridor by the ankle to the room she thought they had left the children in earlier. Tapping softly on the door she whispered through it.

Tallis whispered back. “Is that you, Princess?”

“Tallis? Yes. Slide that knife I gave you before under the door would you? Then I can get this door open.” She knew she would need all of her energy if she was going to get them all out of there, so trying to use the strange “gift” she’d developed wasn’t really an option. Smiling as a thin round bladed poniard appeared in the gap under the door she picked it up. Inserting it into the lock, she probed around until she heard a loud click telling her she’d tripped it. Swiftly entering the room, she hugged the children, pulling the guard in behind her and shutting the door.

Using the knife to tear up bed sheets as she was talking to them, Jenevra explained that Tallis was going to go out of the window first. She would lower him down to the ground using the sheets. Then Tilda and Teshia would go. Tallis would be able to untie the girls as they reached the bottom. “I’ll come down after all of you,” the princess said. “But you have to promise me something first.”

The three children nodded solemnly, and she smiled at them. “Good. What I need you to promise is that you will leave as soon as all three of you are on the ground. You can’t wait for me … understand? Tallis, you’re on your honor for this one. You’re responsible for getting the girls away from here. Head south, towards Bortka, then to Salanova. If you manage to get to the Imperial Palace, go to the stables and ask for Master Alvaro. Give him the knife.” She handed the small blade back to Tallis. “He’ll help you get in to see the Empress.”

The children’s eyes were wide, their gaze moving over the dead guard sprawled in the corner of the room. “Where will you be, Princess?” Teshia asked nervously. “Won’t you be with us?”

Jenevra finished tying a knot over the end of the last piece of sheet. “With luck, I will be with you; but you can’t wait for me. Just get going. Keep to the shadows. I will find you all again, I promise. Tilda, this means you have to be really brave about being in the dark. Can you do that for me? No crying?”

The little girl nodded, thumb stuck in her mouth.

“Right,” Jenevra took a deep breath, opened the window and looked out. “Tallis? Let’s try this out then.” She tied one end of the rope around the boy’s waist and helped him out of the window. “Don’t worry, Tallis,” she grinned at him. “When this is all over, I’ll take you mountain climbing. This is nothing! Just remember—as soon as the girls are down, you go.”

It was a good forty five feet to the ground, but the sheet rope was just long enough. Hauling it back in quickly, Jenevra lowered Tilda and then Teshia down to Tallis: the girls at least were light. Waving at them to get going, she was pleased to see them move off into the shelter of some low bushes along the top of the cliffs. Tying the sheet onto a heavy table which she pulled across the room, she let herself out of the window; glad she’d decided to use the rope as the stone walls of the castle were almost totally smooth. A sudden noise in the room above her told her that their escape had been discovered. Before she could do anything an axe severed the sheet rope, dropping the princess most of the way; landing awkwardly with an arm under her and a loud crack from her leg. Even before she tried to sit up and failed she knew she’d broken it. Cursing under her breath she hissed towards the bushes for the children to get going. Torches approached rapidly, voices harsh as they reached her. Feeling true pain for probably the first time in her life, Jenevra passed out as they dragged her back into the castle.

A sharp smell brought her back to her senses, unaccustomed agony flaring through her in nauseating waves. Trying to lift her head, she found she could barely move. Her arms were held up to the sides; the left one sending vicious shooting pains into her shoulder and hand. Slowly gaining consciousness she began to realize where she was; tied standing at the end of the bed in the room she had been in earlier. Her arms were pulled out as wide as they could be, raising her as high as possible without her feet leaving the floor. All of her weight was on her left leg, the right one hanging, twisted, agonizingly.

“She’s back with us,” she heard Cieren’s voice through the haze in her head. “Hello, Princess, how are we feeling?” He pulled her head back to look into her eyes. His face was close to hers, his breath hot on her skin. Moving around behind her, burying his head in her hair, he sniffed in its scent. Cieren felt the princess tense. Relishing the sense of power it gave him, he slid his hands around her, grasping her breasts in his hands while standing pressed tight up against her; feeling her try to twist away from him, unable to do so. Smiling maliciously, the Prince pulled her hair back, shifting round in front of her to kiss her again, sliding his tongue into her mouth, biting her lip viciously when she tried to pull away. Moving away, Cieren poured himself a goblet of wine, threw several pillows to the top of the bed and settled down to watch the princess. “Much better,” he approved, raising his cup to her.

Unable to move enough to toss her hair forward to cover her chest, Jenevra hung at the end of the bed, mind whirling as she realized how little chance there truly was of escaping this. Every movement she tried to make sent splintering spikes of pain through her leg into her back.

“Saifullah, welcome.”

Barely conscious, Jenevra heard Jaiyen’s voice with the sound of the door opening and closing.

“You did not mention this was a woman, my friend Jaiyen.”

“I was not aware it would make a difference, Saifullah.”

“It does not truly, Jaiyen,” Jenevra could hear the newcomer’s voice coming closer to her; a soft voice with an accent that rang with familiarity. “It is unusual, but a rather pleasant surprise in many ways. You do realize that she may not last for the entire procedure?” There was no emotion in the voice, just a soft statement of fact.

“There’s no rush, Saifullah.” Jaiyen’s voice came again. “You can take your time with this one. You can carve every last inch of her. Just be sure she breaks before she dies.”

“She will.” The voice of the one being called Saifullah spoke from behind her. A soft hand lifted her hair from her back, brushing it forward to fall down the front of her shoulders, much to Cieren’s disappointment. The hand caressed the curve of her spine, gently, almost comfortingly, lightly touching the sword scars on her left flank. “Yes, friend Jaiyen, it will be a pleasure to work on such a beautiful canvas.” He began to move around to the side of the bed. “And does the face have the beauty to match the back?”

Jenevra looked down, thick curtain of hair falling across her face.

Jaiyen snapped his fingers at Cieren, who was only too happy to oblige, crawling to the end of the bed and pulling Jenevra’s head back, brushing her hair to one side; fondling her breasts again. “Later, Cieren.” Jaiyen said, tiredly.

A tall, gaunt man came into focus in Jenevra’s hazy vision; hands quietly folded in the sleeves of a long robe similar to that worn by Faris when they had visited the palace. Labrian! That was why the accent had sounded familiar. A neatly kept graying beard hung from the man’s chin in an almost perfect V-shape, joining well trimmed moustaches. Deeply set dark eyes gazed serenely at her. “Yes, quite beautiful,” he mused, cupping her chin to raise her eyes to his. “And not unaccustomed to pain for one so young, I see.” He reached forward, tenderly tracing the scars, cuts and bruises still visible on her with one finger. “I think I shall call you Malak, dear child. It means angel in the language of my people.” He removed his outer robe, revealing a long purple tunic and trousers, covered with rich embroidery in a dark magenta thread. Folding his sleeves back meticulously, he began to unroll a soft packet he carried with him, talking to the princess all the time in that same curiously gentle voice, describing in intricate detail the process that was about to begin. “You understand, my beautiful Malak,” he whispered as he opened the roll to reveal a selection of tiny bladed razor-edged knives. “The fear of the process is just the first stage of the pain.” He held the flat blade of one of the knives against the skin just below her right eye, amused when she simply closed her eyes.

Soothingly, Saifullah stroked her hair over the front of her shoulders again, not wanting any of it in his way as he worked. Holding the back of her head forward with one hand, he caressed the soft skin at the nape of her neck with the blade, then turned the edge and began to cut, whispering to her continuously. Noting only a slight gasp, Saifullah’s hooded eyes looked questioningly at Jaiyen. “You have not given me a mute, my friend?”

Jaiyen laughed abruptly. “You could wish, Saifullah. Believe me this one is far from mute!”

Curious, Saifullah moved to Jenevra’s side. Watching her face carefully, he reached out and hit her left arm; the one broken by her fall.

Jenevra paled, choking hard against sickness; a slight tremor running through the muscles of her upper arm: but she clenched her teeth and looked into his eyes defiantly; chilled at the delighted smile that spread across his face.

Nodding understandingly at her, he uncorked a small vial tucked into the end pocket of his knife roll. “Ah, my beautiful Malak. So unusual; an exquisite challenge. I will teach you how to feel. In a short time, sweet angel, you will understand how to submit to the pain; how to let it take you.” He broke the seal on the vial, throwing it carelessly onto the bed. “Just one little drop of this, Malak. Open your mouth, my angel.” The gentle hand held her jaw firmly, one finger pressing against a point that forced her mouth open just enough for him to quickly tilt the vial against it.

Unable to wriggle out of his grasp, Jenevra tried not to swallow, but he held her head back, hand over her mouth for several minutes; talking constantly in that low calming voice, long fingers stroking down her throat until reflex took over.

“There now; all done. Now we can continue.” Saifullah returned to his position behind the princess, picked the blade up and began cutting again. Short, deep strokes of the knife began etching a detailed design on Jenevra’s neck, warm blood trickling down her back. Saifullah didn’t stop to wipe it away: he knew the lines he was carving into her without any need to look at them.

As the drug he’d given her took effect, Jenevra began to feel the touch of the knife, each stroke burning into her skin. Her eyes were tightly closed as she tried to meditate against the worst of it, but the agony of the broken limbs added to the Saifullah’s knife was escalating rapidly now.

“Interesting,” Saifullah paused in his work again, taking time to step back and sip at a glass of water, blood dripping from his fingers, forming a pool on the table as he placed the glass back down. “Jaiyen, will you give my young friend here another drop or two of rakthan?” He smiled at Jenevra as Jaiyen forced more of the liquid in the vial into her mouth: not such a struggle this time as the first dose had taken some effect. He looked at Cieren, sitting propped up on the bed, watching the princess in fascination.

As the new dose of rakthan began to take hold the pain increased dramatically. From never feeling any excessive pain, Jenevra was suddenly plunged into a world that consisted totally of it. Every touch of the blade along her back sent a stream of white hot pain through her, shooting yellow and black rods across her vision as she faded in and out of reality. Flinching away from the knife shot excruciating flares into her leg and arm, taking the princess into misty realms of consciousness where the pain surrounded her completely, over-riding every other sensation.

Each time, Saifullah would stop; patiently waiting for her to come back.

Each time she would gasp, maybe a small moan, but she hadn’t cried out.

Fingers working steadily hour after hour through the blood trickling down her back, Saifullah continued patiently creating the serpent along her spine. When he reached the tail, he picked up a long thin needle-like item from his roll and carefully pushed it into the base of her back. “Are you ready for this, my Malak?” He waved another sharp smelling bottle under the nose of the barely conscious Princess, stroking her hair gently and beckoning Prince Cieren to come closer. “I believe we are almost there, Your Highness.”

Jaiyen stood at Jenevra’s right side. “Are you ready to quit the Order yet, Nimh’a?” He asked quietly. “All you have to do is tell me you’re leaving and all this stops. Just say yes, Jenna.”

She heard him through waves of mist and pain; through blossoming red flowers of agony that swam across her vision. She thought she was shaking her head.

Barely touching the needle Saifullah tapped it forward just slightly onto a nerve in her back and Jenevra’s world exploded.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

From the Imperial Palace Faris’s ship had taken Shadow Flight north to Bortka, to Colin and Annis’s inn, hoping desperately that they would find the children still safely there. As the ship cut through the sea, D’Agostino commented on the speed and build of the small vessel.

“The faster the better under the circumstances,” Farid noted bleakly. He had been describing what he knew of the Saifullah and the “Serpent” to the others, particularly for Wynn’s benefit, so that the healer would have an idea of what he could potentially be treating when they found her.

“I just don’t get the point of it,” D’Agostino admitted. “Why not just kill them and have done with it. What purpose does this serpent thing serve?”

“Pain,” Farid said bleakly. “That is its sole purpose; to cause such agonizing pain to the victim that they will do anything to make it stop—providing they are still capable of it by the time they break.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this, Jatar,” Spider noted caustically. “Had reason to use it yourself have you?”

“I have seen it used. When Kings want information, they aren’t always willing to wait for it. Our father has employed a Saifullah on occasion; and he made sure I knew what it was about. I was told not to be too squeamish about it; it’s simply a practical tool for extracting information.” Farid pushed his dark hair back from his face, looking grim. “Yet another issue my father and I disagreed upon.”

“So you’ve actually seen this done?” Wynn asked with a clinical interest.

Farid nodded. “I have, and I’ve told you as much as you need to know. All we should be doing now is praying that Pichot was lying and they don’t already have her.”

Finding Colin and Annis lying on the ground where Cieren’s men had left them, Brogan immediately set a burial detail to work, knowing now they would have to move faster than ever. Silently, he applauded Jenevra’s foresight in keeping the Flight so small, as he ordered them to mount up again. In the absence of evidence to tell them differently, they were assuming that Cieren’s men were responsible for the attack; that they had taken the children and, even if the princess wasn’t already with them, she would be trailing them too.

With Bernardo’s uncanny tracking instincts picking up signs where no one else would have seen them, they headed for the northern coast at a full gallop, following it towards Prince Cieren’s castle at Fetu-Vallis. As evening fell the day after leaving Salanova, they rode into a small valley just to the west of the castle. From the crest of the valley, they had a clear view of the castle; standing peaceful in the twilight. The small town around the castle was already sinking into the gloom of evening as the sun sank lower, depriving it of the little cheer it ever saw.

Finn, Spider and D’Agostino, with Captain Tessier, the healer Wynn, and the two Labrian Princes led the way towards the west side; Finn’s sharp eyes catching a movement in the shadows. Tapping Spider’s arm he pointed towards the dark bushes at the bottom of the hill.

Spider motioned back to the Flight to wait.

Several minutes later, three small figures scrambled up into the rocks at the top of the valley. The tallest of the three was trying to keep the other two quiet.

Spider smiled. “Tallis?” He called softly. “Tallis, is that you? Are the girls with you? We’re from the princess’s Flight.”

Finn and Spider heard some whispering from the rocks, and then Tallis came forward slowly, staying back out of reach as he tried to peer at the two men. Squinting at Spider he said, “You carried her into the inn, didn’t you?”

Spider nodded his head. “You remember? That’s good. Are the girls safe?”

Tallis stared at him for a long moment; hesitating, until Brogan and Bernardo came forward to stand by Spider. “Teshia, it’s alright. Bring Tilda out too. They’re the princess’s men.” The two little girls came forward, Tilda’s thumb still firmly wedged in her mouth. Bernardo held his arms out to them and they came shyly to him. Picking them up he carried them back along the valley to where the rest of the Flight was waiting.

Wynn quickly checked them all over, smiling at them, relieved that there was no apparent damage to any of them. “How did you get out of the castle?” He asked Tallis. “It’s not easy for a young boy and two little ones to do that on their own is it?”

“The princess got us out,” Tallis told him between mouthfuls of bread from a loaf that Farid had given him. “She let us down on a rope made out of sheets. She made me promise to go as soon as the girls were down too,” he added guiltily.

“What about the princess?” Tessier asked intently. “Where is she?”

“She fell down,” Tilda announced tearfully. “She didn’t get up again.”

“Calm down Captain,” Farid caught hold of Tessier’s arm before he could spring forward at Tallis to question him further. “We’ll get further faster if we don’t frighten them.” He turned to the children again. “What did you see, Tallis?”

“Marvelous,” groaned Wynn as he listened to the boy’s tale. “Sounds like a broken leg on top of anything else. How does she do it?”

“Maybe she just sprained her ankle?” Tessier said, hopefully.

Wynn looked at him with a pained expression. “Captain, she walked out of my tent after a sword went entirely through her; she got half drowned, battered against rocks and climbed a cliff in a storm. Do you honestly think a sprained ankle would stop her … with the children to look after?”

“You may have a point,” Tessier conceded looking sheepish. “So they took her back into the castle?”

Tallis nodded, his young face tired and worried. “I heard someone scream a little while ago; inside the castle. Do you think they’re hurting the princess because she let us out?”

Tessier put his hands on Tallis’s shoulders and looked the boy in the eyes. “Tallis,” he said gently. “It’s possible they will hurt her, but I promise you it’s not because of you or your sisters. You did exactly what you should have done—you obeyed orders. That’s all any soldier can do. Now can you be brave again while we go and see if we can find the princess?”

Making certain the children were well hidden behind thick scrubby bushes, with a strongly protesting Bernardo, the men made ready to find a way into the castle. D’Agostino had scouted ahead around the base and back of the castle. The only possible way in was through the main gate that he could see.

“What about through that tower?” Spider pointed to a large tower overhanging the back of the castle, almost touching the mountains behind it. “Is there any way up to it?”

D’Agostino shook his head. “Not that I could find, and I looked. It seems to be some sort of supply area. I think there is some sort of hatch up there, but it’s too dark to tell.”

Finn and Spider shared a thoughtful look. “That’s our way in,” Finn said. “If a few of us go in that way, we can open the main gate for the rest of you.”

“If more of you go, you can take the healer and start looking for the Captain.” Brogan raised his hands as they turned to stare at him wonderingly. “As she’s so fond of saying, that’s why I’m the Sergeant. Now get moving!”

Finn, Spider and Gervaise D’Agostino with Captain Tessier, the healer Wynn, and the two Labrian Princes headed into the deep gloom at the back of the castle.

“What is that?” D’Agostino asked as Finn took a strange looking device and held it against the string of his longbow. “It’s not any type of arrow I’ve seen before.”

Spider grinned as Finn took aim at the bottom of the hatch at the top of the tower. “It’s a dagger with folding handles on it; one of the Captain’s toys. She usually keeps a couple tucked into that long braid … you know, just for emergencies. Nice shot!” Finn’s flying dagger lodged itself firmly in the wooden boards of the hatch. The three of them pulled hard, but nothing moved. Farid lent a hand too, but still nothing.

“It’s just a thought,” Brogan observed, coldly. “But if four of you can’t pull that dagger loose, couldn’t one of you just climb the rope and open the hatch up?”

At that instant a chilling scream tore through the quiet evening.

Tessier went pale.

The Flight members stared at each other. Finn, D’Agostino and Farid all smacked Spider across the head at the same time. “Get up that damn rope!” D’Agostino hissed at him. “That’s why we call you Spider!”

Within a few minutes there were six of them at the top of the tower, hauling Wynn up who was clinging tightly to the rope, eyes shut. Pulling him into the small room at the top of the tower, they stopped again to assess where they were. Wynn was checking his satchel, ensuring his supply of medications was still intact after bumping across country from the ship. “One thing, gentlemen,” his urgent tone caught their attention. “When we find the princess it is vital that you don’t move her until I’ve had a chance to see what condition she’s in. If they’re messing around her spine, or if that leg is broken, then we can’t move her until things are stable.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Tessier whispered harshly. “We need to find her and get out!”

“Fine, Captain,” Wynn retorted angrily. “And we’ll leave it to you to explain to her why she can’t ever walk again shall we? Keep her still until I can deal with whatever has happened. Then we can get her out safely!”

Another agonized scream harrowed Tessier’s heart. Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists in impatience, he drew his sword and nodded. “Let’s go.”

From the few details Tallis had been able to give them, the men knew roughly which area of the castle they were aiming for, and they moved quickly down to the level they thought they needed. The few guards they encountered were dealt with swiftly and silently. Farid, Faris and Spider ran swiftly to the front gate. Assuming that no one would attack from inside the castle, Cieren only had two guards on the gate at night. The three Shadow Flight men dispatched them quickly, struggling to lift the heavy crossbar and open the gates for the rest of the Flight.

Tessier and D’Agostino had drawn their swords, and Finn was stalking the hallways with an arrow nocked ready in his bow. Reaching the end of the hallway first, Finn moved ahead, leaving the others still checking the rooms behind him. To the far left, he thought he saw a youngish man entering a room towards the end of that next hallway. Moving silently along to check it out, he waved at Tessier to tell him which way he was going. Reaching the room, Finn tried the door carefully. It wasn’t locked. Lifting the latch he pushed the door open slowly with his foot, loaded bow ahead of him as he entered the room. His stomach knotted in cold fury as he saw Prince Cieren kneeling on the bed in front of the unconscious form of the princess; his head buried in the thick fall of hair cascading down her front. “Get off her!” He snarled.

Startled, Cieren looked up.

That was all Finn needed: loosing his arrow straight through Cieren’s throat. Poking his head out of the door he gave a light whistle signaling the others to come to him. Moving across the room, he dragged the dead Prince off the bed, dropping him unceremoniously onto the floor.

Tessier was next into the room, staggering in shock as he saw her; hurling himself towards where Jenevra was hanging between the posts of the bed, reaching for the ropes that tied her when Finn grabbed his arm. “Damn it, Corrigan,” he choked. “I can’t leave her like this. I’ve got to get her down.”

Finn’s eyes were sympathetic but he held on. “Do you really want to be the one who stops her climbing, or running … or even walking? Wynn knows what he’s doing. Just wait for him.”

The tall healer came running into the room with D’Agostino, halting in dismay as he saw Jenevra. Pulling himself together quickly he stood behind the princess, reaching through her hair to check the pulse in her neck. It was weak, but that was better than he’d expected as he saw her slumped forward as she was. Standing back, he looked over what was visible: the livid bruising on the left arm, the blood encrusted back with three thin needles still stuck in it, and the right leg, twisted at an improbable angle. Looking up startled as Farid and Spider ran in, Wynn sighed deeply. “Right. Here’s how this has to happen. I need two of you ripping sheets up to make bandages. I want one large piece folded to go down the length of her back. I need something … well, preferably four somethings, that we can use to hold her leg and arm straight when we move her. Long thin pieces of wood or metal—they need to stop her leg and arm from moving.” The healer looked at Tessier who was obviously in shock. “Captain!”

Tessier looked at him blankly.

“Captain, I need you to hold her still. Can you do that?”

“What?”

“Captain Tessier, just get up on that bed, and hold on to the princess.” Wynn shook his head, turning his attention back to Jenevra as Tessier jumped onto the bed, holding her head gently in his hands, murmuring quietly, reassuringly, to her; his stomach clenching as there wasn’t even the slightest flicker of consciousness from her.

Farid stood next to the healer, strips of sheet already being thrust into his hands. Bending, he retrieved a small vial he had found on the floor, standing back up slowly as he read it.

“What’s that?” Wynn asked Farid.

“Rakthan,” Farid muttered, swallowing hard, his eyes fixed on the princess. “The seal was on the floor, but there’s over half a vial gone.”

“What?” Wynn was incredulous. “Half? Half a vial? You’re not serious?” But he could see from Farid’s glittering eyes that there was no mistake. “Great Pajan, it’s a miracle she’s still alive. Of course, it remains to be seen what sort of damage this has done.”

“Back first, then,” muttered Wynn, marshaling his thoughts. “Farid, can you hold her back still while I try to get these out without doing more harm?” He took a deep breath as Farid placed strong hands on the princess’s sides. Pulling slowly and carefully, Wynn got all three of the grotesquely long needles out of her back.

“Dear Gods!” D’Agostino shuddered as he saw the third one come out. “How did that not go all the way through her?” He held more strips out to Wynn, staring now at the princess’s back, blood still dripping slowly from the mutilated flesh. “Somebody needs to pay for this,” he muttered angrily, moving away and tearing more strips from the sheets with real venom.

Laying a heavily wadded roll of sheet along the length of her back, Wynn wrapped the princess’s torso with the makeshift bandages to hold it in place, all the way to the top of her neck. That done, he turned to the next major task, the broken leg.

Spider had found a wooden high backed chair in the corner of the room and had broken it down to reasonable sizes for Wynn’s needs. Tying longer lengths together, Wynn made a splint for Jenevra’s leg; binding them tightly to the mangled limb. “We’re almost ready to get her down,” he told them. Then we have to really do some work.”

“We’re running out of time, healer,” Farid reminded him as sounds of swords clashing came from around the castle.

“It will take as long as it takes,” Wynn said doggedly. “Why doesn’t one of you watch the door?” He added as Faris ran in to the room to join them; smugly pleased with himself for locking a large number of the Prince’s troops in their own barracks, and then telling Brogan and his men where to find them.

Tying more splits to the left arm before loosening the ropes that were keeping it stretched taut, Wynn had all of them lift the princess onto the bed. Laying more or less flat, her hair falling back from her face, they could see her extreme pallor, eyes that were sunken and bruised looking, and lips that were bitten raw rather than allow herself to cry out … until she was too far gone to know.

With swift precision Wynn undid her arm splints. “Hold onto her, and stuff that pillow in her mouth. This is going to hurt.” He twisted the arm with both hands: nasty grinding noises making the men cringe, until he was happy that he could feel the bones were more or less in the right places.

Jenevra’s eyes opened for the first time since they had found her as the pain broke through forcing her into a brief consciousness, and Tessier kissed her face with relief as he saw her look at him. “It’s alright, Princess. We’ve got you now.” His smile died as she lost consciousness again. Shaking her gently, he called her name.

“Captain, please don’t wake her up again,” Wynn pleaded. “She’s really going to be better off out cold for the next one.” He started unwrapping the splints from her leg. “Gods, I hate this,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

“Why?” Spider asked him curiously.

Wynn looked at him, using a small knife to cut the front of Jenevra’s trouser leg open. “Because next to actual amputation this is the one that hurts the most: I hate doing it, but you absolutely have to straighten the leg as soon as possible. Not to mention the amount of Rakthan they gave her.” He turned to the men standing around him. “Captain, you need to lie across her shoulders; Faris, across her hips. Spider, you need to hold that left leg absolutely still. Lie on it if you need to. Farid, I’m going to need you to pull on this right foot as hard as you can. Don’t let go until I tell you! Gods, I hate this! Ready? Go.”

As they each followed his instructions, Jenevra struggled to move; letting out a high rending scream ending on a sob that tore at all of them.

Wynn snapped the bone back into place with a sickening crunch as the princess passed out again. He reached quickly for the pulse in her neck again, murmuring a prayer of thanks to Pajan, the healing god, as he felt it. Wrapping the leg in its splints and bandages again, he nodded at the men. “Now we can get out of here!”

“Someone’s coming!” D’Agostino, watching at the door, whispered loudly.

Picking their swords up again, the men quickly positioned themselves along the walls by the door, or behind the bed; ready to add the element of surprise to however many came in.

“Cieren, I told you not to—” Jaiyen broke off as he saw the princess lying on the bed; his nephew’s son on the floor with an arrow through his throat. Sweeping his sword free of its scabbard he turned to face the intruders.

Saifullah followed him into the room, also startled to see the princess removed from her earlier position. “My Malak.”

Farid’s sword stopped him. “Malak? You dare to call her Malak?” Without hesitating he drew his blade across the torturer’s throat.

Jaiyen eyed the furious men in the room. Coldly contemptuous of their ability the old man raised his sword against all of them.

As Tessier started to move against Jaiyen from his position by Jenevra, a small shining object flew past his ear, taking the Master by surprise as it cut deeply into his carotid artery. One of Saifullah’s razor-edged knives had found its final resting place. Jaiyen dropped his sword; an expression of utter surprise on his face as he fell to the ground, gasping through the profuse bleeding until, suddenly, he was dead.

“That’s for Graea,” Jenevra mumbled behind Tessier, falling back onto the bed unconscious.

In their anger at the treatment of their beloved Princess, the few guards the men encountered as they left the castle were disposed of without compunction. Collecting the children and their horses, they rode south. Tessier had wanted to carry Jenevra in front of him, but Wynn had point blank refused, insisting on a well-sprung coach from Cieren’s stables for her. He also insisted on taking her back as far as they could by Faris’s ship. The ship might take a little longer, depending on the winds, but it would be a smoother journey for the injured Princess, and the healer wanted her to stay as straight and flat as possible.

From Lake Kata it was a short ride to the Palace. Tessier had sent Farid ahead with Tallis to let them know they were coming, and they soon had Jenevra settled in her own rooms.

Phillip and Christiana arrived at Jenevra’s room almost as soon as she was there. The Emperor’s face was grim as he took in the small figure lying unconscious on the bed in front of him. “What do you need, healer?” he asked Wynn. “Whatever it is, just tell them,” he gestured to the guards standing just inside the room. “They’ll make sure you have it.” He glanced at Tessier who was standing by the bed, his gaze riveted on the princess. “How is she…really?”

Blaise shook his head, not really trusting his voice.

“Umm…I think Your Majesty might prefer to leave for a few minutes,” Wynn suggested deferentially. “I need to check Her Highness over and get that leg pulled out on weights.” He waved to a couple of his assistant healers who’d been scurrying around finding the supplies Wynn needed.

Phillip moved closer, taking his cousin’s hand in his. “I think I’ll stay,” he said briefly. “Chris, you might not want to see this.”

“She’s my sister,” Christiana glared at him. “Of course I’m staying.”

Rolling Jenevra gently onto her front with Tessier’s help, Wynn removed the bandages from round her torso. The long roll of material he had placed along her back had to be soaked to peel it away where the blood had dried it onto her skin; but he washed her back carefully as it came off.

“Jenn!” Christiana was in tears as she finally saw the damage done to her small sister. “What did they do? Can’t you do anything?” She sobbed at Wynn, as she looked again at the livid red lines scored from Jenevra’s neck all down the length of her back.

“Not really, Your Majesty, no,” Wynn said softly. “It will fade slightly in time, but the scarring will always be there. We’re still not entirely sure of what damage the process may have done other than the obvious. Time will have to tell us that, I’m afraid.” He began to place fresh bandages along the back, wrapping them around her again. “The best we can say for it is that it’s all clean, no sign of any infection—then we’d have a much bigger problem.” He gave them all a very direct look, even his tufted hair seemed to be taking the situation seriously and was lying flat against his head. “We’re very lucky that she’s still alive. Let’s just make sure she stays that way before we start worrying about the long term effects.”

Phillip cast a look over at Tessier. “How are you doing with all this?”

“I’ll cope,” he grated; but his eyes had a haunted look to them.

When Wynn was finally satisfied that the princess had had every medical need attended to, he suggested that they leave her with her sister and maids so that they could change her clothes for something more suitable than the battered trousers she’d worn since leaving the palace. “Just call me if there’s any sign of her waking up,” the exhausted healer told them as he left the room.

Christiana clambered onto the bed, sitting next to Jenevra, stroking her hair, tears spilling slowly down her face as she contemplated what her sister had been through.

Phillip kissed his wife, squeezing her hand and promising to return later. Placing a light kiss on Jenevra’s cheek, he left the room with Tessier following reluctantly.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

The next few weeks were strangely subdued in the Imperial Palace.

Although the princess was there, she remained unconscious for two weeks. The servants moved about silently, conversation in the court itself was mainly conducted in hushed whispers, no-one quite sure whether they were in mourning or not. The strain on the Imperial Family was clear. The Empress and Dowager Empress were spending most of their days in the princess’s room, watching and waiting for some sign of change. The Emperor strode around, coldly furious that his cousin should have paid so dearly for the ambition of the Diruthians.

The Imperial War Host, under Commander Rabenaldt’s command once again, had witnessed the collapse of the Diruthian rebellion. Corros had ridden onto the field unaware of the deaths of his uncle and his son, unaware of Captain Pichot’s capture and unaware that he would be facing the entire Imperial Army. Phillip coolly informed him of his losses and accepted his surrender before the battle could even take place, sending Corros back to Diruthia in the company of a furious Captain Manvi and his Flight. Surprising most people, Mikyle Manvi seemed to be taking Jenevra’s injuries almost personally, angrier than anyone, his mother included, ever remembered seeing him. Stephan and Richard Couressime had returned to Salanova with Captain Manvi’s Flight, but had stayed rather than go to Diruthia.

Captain Tessier had returned to his duties as Captain of Eagle Flight, although he was obviously not focused on his work, spending as much time as he could hovering near Jenevra’s room, ignoring Serena Massili’s protests that it wasn’t proper for him to be there. Fortunately, Jann Crevaux was extremely competent, not to mention highly sympathetic to his Captain, and kept the Flight on its toes.

Captain Pichot’s Flight was now commanded by his Senior Lieutenant, Neill Malov, a Maressian Baron deeply committed to the Empire and not a huge fan of his previous commander.

Kian Menzetti, knowing he had some time before Jenevra would be ready to talk, had returned to Mirizir, to acquaint his mother with everything that had happened, leaving Shadow Flight under Brogan’s direction; mainly concentrating on their usual training routine. As always there was a member of the Flight outside Jenevra’s room on guard constantly; reporting back on her condition to the Flight at the end of their shift. It was Kallan Bana who got to take the news of the princess’s return to consciousness back to the barracks, just over two weeks after their return to Salanova. It was still too early to tell how she would do in the long run, but Kallan reported that she had been heard to ask what the Flight was up to, and to ask for Brogan to report to her. With a grin he told the Flight that the Emperor had firmly squashed that idea; but they were all secretly delighted that she’d thought of the Flight first.

Once conscious, it was only natural that Jenevra’s normal impatience would manifest again. The tethered leg soon became a source of increasing frustration for her, confining her to a bed when she felt fully capable of at least sitting up by the window. Every day she glowered at Wynn as he announced that it still wasn’t time to release the limb from its tension.

“You do want to walk again, don’t you, Your Highness?” he enquired cynically. “And if you think I’m going to allow you to sit at that window so you can shout orders down to that Flight of yours—”

Each time Captain Tessier tried to visit the princess he was turned away. One thing that was crystal clear in Jenevra’s mind was that it was her weakness that had caused this entire situation. If she had stuck to her training and discipline, she would never have allowed feelings for Tessier, or for the children at the inn, to take precedence over her duty to Phillip or the Order. Making that mistake once was enough. It had killed Colin and Annis, and come close to killing her. Never again. So, she simply refused to see him, or the children.

Arrilia Neilla, Lennia, Phillip, Christiana, her brothers, and even Raik popped in fairly regularly to keep her company. None of them brought up anything she had gone through, and Jenevra only knew what she saw in her nightmares. As her mind cleared of the drugs Wynn had been using to keep her still and pain-free, all of the training she’d had on keeping her emotions in control was brought to bear on just keeping from screaming during the daytime, as images would pop into her mind at odd times. Days and then weeks went by: a tension built up in her that she didn’t recognize. More and more often she’d drift off inside her head, switching off from whatever was going on around her.

Christiana could see her withdrawing from everything and, after a particularly stressed afternoon with her, asked Wynn if there was anything they could do about it. The tall healer had sighed and told her they just had to be patient. “You often see it in patients where the injury takes a long time to heal, or when the injury happens through some kind of traumatic experience. The event and the pain seem to get mixed up in their minds. ” He explained. “We don’t know exactly why, but they seem to slide into this malaise. Maybe she’ll come out of it when we take the weights off her leg tomorrow.” He looked hopefully at the Empress. “What she needs is to talk about what happened. Has she said anything about it to you?”

Christiana looked at him disbelievingly. “You want me to talk to her about that? Are you mad? She needs to forget about it, not think about it more.”

Wynn shook his head. “You’re wrong, Majesty. She can’t start putting it behind her until she’s sorted it out in her own mind. She needs someone she trusts to help her do that.” He looked meaningfully at her. “I really think she needs to talk to Kian Menzetti,” he drew a breath, knowing his next suggestion wouldn’t go down well. “And Captain Tessier.”

Dubious, but willing to take whatever chance she could to help her sister; Christiana took Tessier in to see Jenevra that evening. Things began well enough. Jenevra wasn’t distressed by his appearance, which was a good thing in Christiana’s eyes. But the last few minutes changed everything. As Tessier leaned over the princess to kiss her forehead, he stroked the hair away from her face and murmured something. The joy in her eyes drained even as he watched. Terror filled them. Suddenly unrecognizing him, he saw her try to move away from him in fear. As he left the room—guilty and confused—he could hear the Empress trying to calm her sister down again.

The following day, Wynn took the weights and ropes off Jenevra’s leg, leaving it down but still splinted and bandaged. Smiling at her obvious relief, the healer warned her sternly about following orders. “We still have a long way to go, Princess. You have to stay off it until I tell you, and then we’ll work on strengthening it again. Any relapse and you’ll be back flat again for another six weeks!”

Jenevra was so ecstatic to be unencumbered; with a stronger hope that she would eventually walk again, that she even agreed to see Blaise again when he came to see her that afternoon. “Look!” she exclaimed, sitting up against the pillows. “No strings!”

Captain Tessier nodded. Standing at the end of the bed and avoiding her eyes, he pulled at his jacket. “I’m glad, princess. I’m going down to see Baran and my sister for a while.” He scratched uncomfortably at his eyebrow and fidgeted with the ruby hilted sword hanging at his side. “I’m taking your Flight with me.” He turned to go, unwilling to see the look on her face.

“What? Wait! No … don’t go.” Watching him walk towards the door, not once turning to look back at her, she could feel a dark pressure building inside her. “That’s my sword!” she shouted. “You can’t do this. They’re my Flight!” Knowing beyond a shadow of doubt that he really was going she felt an overwhelming sense of loss.

Suddenly she felt like she was drowning: suffocating pressure clamped her chest, and her vision slid away. She could hear her blood churning like the pounding of the waves the night she killed Misha. “You’ll lose everything you ever cared about.” She heard Jai-Nimh’s voice echoing smugly as blackness enveloped her mind. In the depths of darkness she could hear a voice screaming.

It took two weeks for Shadow Flight to reach Lorthia, and two days for Baran and Clera to realize that something other than Phillip’s direct orders had brought them there. They knew the basics of what had happened to Jenevra after Baran and Conall had talked to the men.

Clera shook her head pityingly as they sat together after dinner. “Clueless, Blaise … you really are. Even I can tell her Flight is furious with you, and I only see them when they ride in.” She slid off Baran’s knee and dragged another chair over in front of her brother. “What’s happened between you and Jenevra?” She laid her hands over his and squeezed them. “Whatever it is, it’s hurting you. You need to talk it out.”

“That’s what she needs to do,” Blaise retorted angrily. “The healer wanted me to talk to her, but I can’t. I don’t know what to say to her.” Like a dam bursting within him, Blaise suddenly needed to tell them everything. Raking his hands through his hair he began pacing round the terrace, all the details of his trek into Diruthia spilling out: the castle and the Saifullah, the broken limbs and torture, the long, slow recovery and the gradual withdrawal of the princess from everyone around her: and finally, how he’d left, taking her Flight and her sword with him. “How can I talk to her about that? How can I remind her of it all? I just couldn’t bear to be around her and not be able to hold her, to touch her …” He broke off, unable to go on, and Clera jumped up, putting her arms around him.

“Blaise, that’s awful. I know it must be hurting you for you to be like this about it. But have you thought about how Jenevra’s feeling?”

His head snapped up. “What do you mean have I thought about her? I’ve thought about nothing else!”

“No,” she said, slowly. “I’m not sure you have. You’re thinking about it from your point of view. That you don’t want to remember what happened to her. You couldn’t stop it happening to her, and that’s what you don’t want to think about.”

Blaise went chalk-white and Baran prudently moved his wife back from her brother; uncertain whether Blaise was angry enough to lash out, or just sick at the thought his sister had just put into words. He put his hand on Blaise’s shoulder, pushing him into a chair again. “You look like death,” he said quietly. “Have a drink.” Baran placed a cup into Blaise’s hand. “You know … Jenevra really needs you right now. What the hell are you doing here?” Baran’s voice was gentle, not accusing.

“She doesn’t want me,” Blaise said bitterly. “She doesn’t need anyone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Odilia, King Caddoc’s gentle blonde wife, chipped in unexpectedly. “Everyone needs someone, and the princess is no different from the rest of us. Ever since she came back to court, her life’s been jumping from one crisis to the next.”

“What are you talking about?” Blaise drew a deep breath. Odilia’s matter-of-fact tone was getting his attention.

“Think about it, Blaise.” Odilia began counting off events on her fingers. “She grew up in a household that, to all intents and purposes, shut her out because she reminded them of a family tragedy. They sent her away to more people she didn’t know, who, five years later send her back to a life she barely knew to begin with. She comes back to Salanova to find her family all living their own lives. No-one’s got any part for her in it. She thinks Mikhail Dhorani—probably her only close friend—is back in her life and then his father marries him off to someone else. She goes “home” to the Island to find everyone she knew there has just been slaughtered. Mikhail betrays her, and everything she thought they stood for, and she ends up having to kill him. She disappears on her own, trying to protect the few people she thinks might still have a part in her life—and ends up alone again, hurt and probably frightened. Then, just when she hits her lowest point, you manage to catch up with her and bring her safely back. So when she starts feeling that maybe there’s some hope in life you leave her, taking her Flight with you … the one thing she had any control left over … and she’s alone again!” Odilia glared at him. “I’m surprised the poor girl isn’t suicidal!”

“Don’t forget,” Baran added. “She’s been trained by the Order.”

Blaise nodded, uncertain what that had to do with anything.

“You know how Kian keeps on at her about controlling her emotions. They’re big on that. You don’t let your fear show—or your pain. From what you’ve told us, she was way past that point when you found her, so in her eyes … the Order’s eyes, she’s failed.” Baran’s face was shadowed, but his tone was sympathetic. “And now … has she lost you too, on top of all that?”

It was a highly relieved Flight that left Liotchka the following day knowing they were headed back towards Salanova and their Captain. The grumbling had more or less stopped, although D’Agostino and Spider were still shooting dark looks at Tessier. Finn Corrigan rode in his habitual silence, slightly amused at the anger his friends were feeling towards the Captain riding with them. Finn was deeply concerned about the princess, but he thought he understood why Tessier was finding it hard to face up to what they’d seen. Even as he thought about Prince Cieren pawing at the princess his hands clenched. How much stronger must that feeling be for the Captain; wondering what they’d done to her: if she’d ever really be the same again.

On the fifth night of traveling, Clera asked Blaise if he had talked to the men who had found the princess with him. She suggested it might be a good idea for them all to talk; maybe they would find some answers to questions without having to ask Jenevra. Blaise wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but called Brogan, Bernardo, Farid, Finn, Spider and D’Agostino over to sit at their fire. They were all a little uncomfortable with Clera being there, but she refused to leave, saying they might need a woman’s point of view.

“No offense, Your Highness,” D’Agostino said. “But we don’t tend to think of the Captain as a woman.”

“Well, that’s probably half of your problem right there then, isn’t it?” Clera fired back. “You’re all sitting around worrying about her like she’s your baby sister, and then you announce you don’t think of her as a woman! How confused are you all?”

Spider grinned. “Pretty confused,” he admitted. “Mainly about why we left though. Why did you bring us down here, Captain Tessier? Surely the Captain needed you there?”

Blaise shook his head, his face tight. “Far from it,” he said, the haunted look coming back into his eyes. “I had to leave. She was terrified of me.” Blaise scrubbed his hands over his face. “The day before we left, I was with her; just the two of us, nice and quiet. I thought I’d finally cracked it with her, you know; that maybe she was going to accept that we could actually be together. All of a sudden she starts looking at me as if I’ve turned in to some sort of monster. I saw the look on her face. She was terrified—as frightened as I’ve ever seen anyone be of anything. I couldn’t stay there and be the cause of that?”

“What did you do?” Clera laid her hand on his arm. “There must have been something to trigger that sort of reaction. What were you doing? Did you say anything to her?”

“Clera,” Blaise glared at his sister. “Don’t you think I’ve gone over and over it in my mind? I don’t know what I did. I was just sitting next to her … maybe even stroking her hair, but that was it.”

They all looked at each other, helplessly.

After a long pause Farid asked, “Did you call her angel?”

Blaise stared at him, thinking fast. “Maybe … yes,” he said eventually. “At least, I think so. How the hell could you possibly know that?”

“The Saifullah called her Malak: it means angel.” Farid’s face was hidden in his dark hair as he stared towards the fire, lost in memory. “As he was cutting her he was stroking her hair and calling her angel. That’s what you made her remember. That’s why she was frightened. Not of you. In her mind she was back there, and it was the memory that terrified her.”

“Farid,” Baran looked at the Labrian Prince. “How do you know what the Saifullah was doing? You weren’t there.”

“I have seen his work before,” Farid answered shortly. “The same man. He uses gentle words and gestures; he talks to his victim constantly and always gives them a name.”

“What name did he give you?” Clera asked intuitively.

Farid’s black eyes looked across the fire into hers. “Fahd,” he said. “He called me Fahd. It means panther.”

“You’re not serious!” D’Agostino objected. “You have that thing on your back too?”

Resigned, Farid stood up, pulling his shirt off. Down the length of his back was an intricate tracing of a serpent’s markings, showing as white scarred lines against his tanned skin. “When I objected to my father’s use of this ritual, he decided I was a traitor and had the Saifullah work on me—after he had killed the woman I was to marry.” His voice was still and calm. “I survived and came to your Empire. I told you, my family is dead to me and I to them.”

“Until Faris came for you?” Brogan queried. “Your father is sick. Is he trying to apologize to you?”

Farid shook his head, slipping his shirt back on. “No, Faris wants me to go home so that I can be King when my father dies. I have no wish to be King. Faris has remained there among the people. He will do a far better job than I would. He will be King. I will stay here, with this Flight; with the princess.”

Blaise had listened to Farid’s tale in silence. Now he understood a little of what had happened, hope began to surge in him again. A desperate need began to rise now; a need to get back to Jenevra before any chance of her loving him disappeared. He was beginning to see how his sudden departure must be convincing her that he truly didn’t care. Rising to his feet he looked around the fire. “I take it no-one will mind too much if we pick up the pace to Salanova?”

“We were wondering what was holding you back,” Finn remarked blandly.

Laio, the Shadow Flight’s young groom, was the first to see Captain Tessier, with Baran and Clera Wargentin, and Shadow Flight when they arrived back at the Imperial Palace. He saluted Tessier with a sad smile as he held his horse.

“How is the princess?” Blaise looked at his dust caked boots. “Maybe I’d better get cleaned up before I find her? Is she alright, Laio?” Noticing the Flight springing to sudden attention, Tessier turned around to see his Emperor striding across the courtyard towards them.

Phillip’s expression was grim, but he remembered to greet the royal Lorthian couple, Baran and Clera warmly before rounding on Blaise. “I don’t care what excuses you think you’ve got,” the Emperor snarled, jabbing a finger at Blaise. “Stay away from her. You have no idea how bad it’s been here since you walked out. Jenn’s only just starting to get over it and I don’t want you setting her back again. Just leave her alone, d’you understand?”

“Yes … no … I can’t.” Blaise’s face was stricken as he tried to think of some way to appeal to Phillip; some way to make him see. “I have to talk to her.”

Phillip’s face darkened, his eyes flashing dangerously; forestalled only by Clera Wargentin’s timely intervention. “Your Majesty? How is she?” Concern was evident in her tone, as she laid a hand gently on Phillip’s arm. “Blaise told us what happened. We were all shocked. But you said she’s getting better?”

Turning away from Captain Tessier to Baran and Clera, Phillip sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair distractedly. Motioning them to follow him into the palace he aimed a last order at Tessier. “I meant it, Captain. Leave her alone.” He looked around at the others in the courtyard. “No one is to tell the princess that he’s here. That is an order.”

Gnawing on a thumbnail, Captain Tessier stared helplessly at the men of Shadow Flight, all of whom were looking uncomfortable at this latest development.

“Laio?” Bernardo broke the silence. “Is the princess walking again?”

Laio, who had looked almost as upset as Tessier at the Emperor’s pronouncement, looked puzzled at the question. “Yes, but not much. The healer won’t allow her outside yet.”

“But she is moving around inside the palace? She’s not in bed all the time anymore?” Bernardo seemed unusually insistent on detail, allowing himself a slight smile of relief as Laio nodded affirmation. “Don’t worry, Captain,” Bernardo said. “If the princess is even halfway back to form she’ll know you’re here whether anyone tells her or not. She never lets useful information slip past her. And now we’re back, she’ll be looking for us.”

As most of the Flight nodded and murmured in agreement, Tessier was slightly heartened by their support.

Clera and Baran were dismayed by Phillip’s reaction to Blaise’s return, but quickly realized it was solely due to a deep concern for his young cousin; his desire for her not to suffer any more than she already had done.

“It was almost five days after he left before we could get a coherent word out of her,” Phillip explained, as they sat in the Imperial Suite with Christiana some time later. “I really thought we were going to lose her totally; you know, mad princess in the tower kind of thing?”

“I’ll never forgive him,” Christiana said bitterly. “I’m sorry Clera. I know he’s your brother, but leaving the way he did … what it did to her …”

Clera reached across and squeezed Christiana’s hand gently, seeing tears form in the Empress’s eyes. “I understand, Your Majesty, really I do, but—”

“There’s no excuse you can give me, Clera,” Christiana interrupted.

“I wasn’t going to offer one, Your Majesty,” Clera smiled faintly. “I was going to ask you something. What if Jenevra forgives him? If she was so upset by Blaise leaving, it sort of hints that she had quite strong feelings for him. What if she decides she’s in love with him? What will you do then?” Leaving the Empress to ponder the question, Clera rose to her feet. “May I see her? Or does the ban include us too?”

Frowning at the unexpected question, Phillip sat in thought for a moment. “Of course you can see her,” he agreed, ignoring Christiana’s gasp of indignation. “We’ll all go to her, together. But I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on your not mentioning that Blaise is back here. Not yet, at least.”

The four of them emerged from the palace into the gardens. A guard pointed down the length of the gardens to where a familiar figure was sitting on the grass.

Baran grinned hugely. “Princess!” he called, striding down the lawn towards her rapidly. His grin faltered as he saw the pale face turn, the barest flicker of a smile crossing it. Reaching her, his disappointment crested as she remained seated. “What, no hug?” he teased gently.

“You’ll have to give me a hand up first, Your Highness,” Jenevra answered softly, holding her hands out to him, to be lifted up into a huge embrace. Jenevra greeted Clera with a tremulous smile, slightly uncomfortable with the knowledge that she was Tessier’s sister, before remembering the last time she’d seen Clera in Lorthia. “Your baby, Princess Clera!” she blurted. “Forgive me, I forgot. How is the little one?”

Clera delightedly began extolling the cherubic qualities of her newest child, sitting on the blanket next to Jenevra, she quite forgot who she was talking to, and mentioned how like Blaise the new baby was. As the words passed her lips, she drew a sharp breath, wishing she could recall them as she saw Jenevra’s gaze turning inward again in the way Phillip and Christiana had come to dread.

“Blaise Tessier belongs in the deepest pit of everlasting hell, and if I never see him again it’ll be an eternity too soon!” The anger in Jenevra’s tone wasn’t a surprise to Baran or Clera, they’d not expected anything different; but Phillip and Christiana looked sharply at her, and then at each other. Phillip bit his lip, desperately trying to stop a grin from forming. Warning grew dangerously in Christiana’s eyes as she glared at him. “No! Absolutely not. I won’t allow it, Phil.”

Baran caught Phillip’s eye, widening his own in query.

Phillip gestured for the Lorthian Prince to wait for a moment. “Jenn,” he ventured cautiously. “I thought Captain Tessier might join us for dinner.”

Fists clenched tightly by her sides, Jenevra launched into another vituperative attack on Blaise, fury staining her cheeks with the first color they’d had in weeks.

Now grinning openly, Phillip held his arm out to his wife. “Come along, my love. I think your sister needs to be alone with her emotions for a while.” Taking firm hold of Christiana’s arm as she showed no signs of wanting to move, he pulled her along and up to the palace. Reaching the doors, Phillip turned to Baran. “That’s more animation than we’ve seen in a long time. Go tell him I want to talk to him before dinner. He’s got one chance. If he hurts her, he’s a dead man, but I’d rather see her back to her old, argumentative self even if it’s with him.”

By the time Baran had found Blaise and told him of his chance, Jenevra had disappeared from the lawn. On the advice of a passing gardener, Captain Tessier headed along a path towards a small lake, spotting the princess on a bench underneath a Baris Oak, its broad leaves turning from their bright blue to purple with autumn descending. The princess, however, had also noticed Captain Tessier as he came down the long slope of the lawns, and was moving away from him as best she could.

Chasing after her wasn’t difficult. Although she was walking it was a slow and painful process. “Princess? Stop … will you just listen to me?” Blaise ran ahead and stood in front of her, catching her shoulders. “Please … just talk to me. I love you, Jenn, but we absolutely have to talk. Come on … you know you want to.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, severely disappointed to see her turn away again, not even a glimmer of a smile in return.

“Go away.” She continued limping along.

“Look,” he walked alongside her as she trudged slowly along the pathway. “I’m sorry, really, I am. There were things I didn’t understand: I had to get them straight in my own head. I thought it would be for the best if I gave you some time too.” He took hold of her arm. “Will you please stop and listen?”

“I asked you to stop,” she said tautly, closing her eyes briefly against the pain as she turned onto another path leading towards the small, bronze roofed temple. “But you walked out anyway.”

“I was wrong, Princess. Please, just hear me out,” he said.

“No. Leave me alone, Captain.” She headed towards the temple, its open columns warm with the late afternoon sun, dappling the glossy marble floor with golden light. Navigating the small flight of steps with difficulty, Jenevra was limping heavily as she entered the Temple itself. Picking up a small bronze dish containing aromatic oils and lighting it from a constantly burning flame, she approached the small altar, dropping onto a small marble bench, and bowing her head in prayer.

Blaise realized with another lurch how little he really knew about her. He knew there had been a Temple on the Island, and he’d seen her come to this one often enough; but he’d never understood how deep her faith truly ran. Another of the things they’d never talked about. Sitting on the bench behind her, he allowed the peace of the place to surround him, gazing for the first time at the carvings of the legends of the seven Gods in daylight. He knew the stories, everyone did; but these carvings had something about them, something almost lifelike. His eyes ran over the details, appreciating the craftsmanship, the faith of the hand that had created them. When he finally pulled his gaze back to the present, it was to find Jenevra watching him, a strange look on her face. He shrugged, waving his hand at the walls and altar. “I’ve never really looked at these before: they’re incredible.”

“I’ve always loved coming here because of them. They feel like the hand of Tore actually carved them himself. And my stars are here too.” A small smile warmed her face as she saw his puzzled look. “There,” she pointed out the circle of stars in the panel of Tore throwing the stars into the sky. In a quiet voice she told him the story, explaining the significance of the circle of stars to him. “And that’s Coural, the tiniest one … the heart of the Empire.” Her smile deepened fractionally as she closed her eyes again, lowering her head. “There’s just so much peace here, I always feel like I’m in the presence of the Gods.” She looked up again, startled to find Blaise sitting next to her on the bench, dark eyes fixed on her.

“I didn’t know,” he said simply. “But I can see what you mean about this place. I don’t think I’ve ever been inside a Temple that feels quite like this one.”

Again, that slightly puzzled, questioning look passed across her face, and she tipped her head to one side as she looked at him properly for the first time since he’d arrived.

“Princess, you’re here!” The young Priest who cared for the Temple, greeted her with a smile. “You’re later today; I was concerned that maybe your leg was bad again. Did the healer bring you down?” He looked around, seeing only Captain Tessier. “You carried her down here?”

“No, I walked today,” Jenevra supplied before Tessier could answer.

“But that’s wonderful!” the priest exclaimed happily. “I thought Healer Wynn was going to keep you off that leg for longer than this, but Tore be praised if the healing is going better than they thought.”

Catching Blaise’s accusing glance out of the corner of her eye, Jenevra bit on her lip and began to rise. Over-exertion had taken its toll though, and she gasped as her leg shot pain along its length.

Sweeping her up into his arms, Tessier looked blandly at the priest. “I will be carrying Her Highness back up to the palace though. Obviously she has overdone it.”

“Put me down, Captain,” she ordered. “Everything you do ends up hurting me. Just leave me alone.”

“That’s hardly fair,” he sounded hurt, but didn’t loosen his hold.

“I will keep praying, Princess,” the young Priest called after them.

The princess waved at him and then folded her arms, a mutinous set to her mouth.

“Don’t sulk,” Blaise told her. “You’re not supposed to be walking on that leg yet, are you?” Not really expecting an answer, he carried her into the palace. “At least we can talk now without you running off again.” He nodded at several courtiers who stopped talking among themselves to stare at the Captain carrying the princess.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Jenevra snapped. “But wasn’t it you ran off last time? And let’s not forget that night in Virat. You made your position quite clear.”

“And you misunderstood me … as usual.” Blaise grimaced as he saw Jenevra’s sister Christiana striding towards them as they approached Jenevra’s room.

“Blaise Tessier!” The Empress screeched. “Stop right there!”

“Ha! Now you’re in trouble,” Jenevra smirked. “She’s going to kill you.”

“As long as it makes you smile,” he muttered.

Christiana stopped in front of them. “Put my sister down!”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I can’t do that.” Blaise brushed past her, kicking Jenevra’s door open. “Your sister and I are way overdue for a very long talk. Would you excuse us?” He carried Jenevra into her room.

As Christiana followed them in, Phillip appeared behind her. “Come along, my love; let’s give them some time alone.” He took a firm grip on his wife’s arm, grinning widely at Tessier and his cousin. “Play nicely, you two.”

“But I don’t want to talk to him,” Jenevra was objecting as Phillip shut the door behind him.

Depositing Jenevra on her bed, fluffing pillows behind her, Tessier pulled his jacket off and unbuckled his sword. Handing it to Jenevra, he smiled. “I believe this belongs to you.”

Clutching the Spirit Sword of the Shadow Flight tightly, a relieved smile managed to make it all the way to her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me,” Tessier said wryly. “There’s no way your Flight will ever be anything other than yours. They made that perfectly clear. I’ve never met so many mutinous looks in one unit. They hated me.” He poured two goblets of water, and handed one to her. “Once I told them we were coming back to you they all cheered up immensely though.”

Laying the sword next to her on the bed, Jenevra sank back against the pillows. Her pallor, the deep shadows under her eyes, and the fact that she hadn’t even tried to move from the bed spoke volumes about her true condition to Tessier.

“I don’t think they really hate you, Captain. They’ve mostly been quite appreciative of you.” She sipped her drink, looking over the rim of the cup at him. “They’re back though?”

“Yes,” Blaise confirmed, gesturing to the bed. “Now can I sit there while we talk?”

Stretching out comfortably next to her without waiting for her answer, Blaise rested the back of his head on one hand. “I’ve had a lot of people telling me I should talk about everything with you. Wynn, Baran, Clera, your Flight. I didn’t want to talk about any of it Jenn, but once I started it was hard to stop … and it felt a bit better.” He glanced across at her, noting the sudden tension that had crept back into her. Sitting up, he held his hand out to her. “Talk to me, Jenn. You need to. I need you to. I’m not going anywhere until you do, so you may as well give in now.”

“Give in? That’s what it’s all about isn’t it?” Jenevra whispered harshly, her gaze focused inward. “All they want me to do is to give in—to quit. I won’t!”

Blaise’s hand shot out, clamping on her wrist, pulling her to him. Holding her tightly he talked to her, trying to bring her back to the present in that room. Feeling her struggle against him, he just held her more securely, aware that she had nothing like her old strength back yet. Softly, he spoke to her, telling her many of the things he’d talked about with Baran, Clera and the Flight. He told her Farid’s story, and how they had worked out what had frightened her the day before Blaise had left for Lorthia. “That’s why I had to go,” he whispered to her. “I was scared that you would always be terrified of me. But it wasn’t me you were frightened of. It was the memory. Once I understood that I wasn’t what you were afraid of, I could come back. I just couldn’t stand being here if I couldn’t see you, or if you were scared every time you saw me.”

“I didn’t know,” her voice was muffled against his chest. “One minute you were there, the next it was him again. I don’t really remember any of it clearly. But every so often a word or a gesture or something … I don’t know … but it’s like being back in there again—only this time it’s clear and I remember. I don’t know how to stop it.”

“Tell me what you can remember.” Blaise said. “You might remember more than you think, and then you’ll know what was real and what’s in your imagination. It’s not going to be an easy thing to fix, Jenn. You’ve been through more in the last few months than I can imagine, but it’s a place to start. And I’ll be here with you. I’m not going to let you go again.” Holding her closely to him he listened as she began, falteringly, to talk about what had happened since she left the palace with Faris.

She told him some of what had happened at the inn; glossing over most of Major Naran’s “lesson”, apart from using Colin and Annis as a way of showing her that they would kill the children too if she resisted going with them. Sketching over the journey from the inn to Fetu-Vallis, she gave him far more information about the time when she reached the castle. When she tried to tell him about the fall from the window, when she had broken her leg, she began to tremble; holding tightly onto her self control.

“Jenn? Let it go.” Blaise kissed her gently. “You need to cry. Who’s going to know? There’s only me here, and I’ve seen your tears before, remember?” He kept on murmuring to her until the tears finally began to flow, and she cried as though she would somehow wash out every memory of what had happened. Through the tears, he pulled the rest of the story out of her, leading her gently through the confused welter of memories jumbled in her mind. He gathered that there was more that she wasn’t telling him; but this would do for now. At least she was talking to him, holding on to him, needing him.

Serena Massili entered the room; a protest, forming as she saw Blaise on the bed with the princess, dying before a word was uttered as she saw the young girl sobbing helplessly on his chest. Her eyes met Blaise’s and, for the first time in weeks, Serena smiled at him and nodded in approval, shutting the door behind her.

“I’ve never been like that before,” Jenevra told him, wiping at her face with her sleeve. “Never felt so helpless. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a situation that I knew I couldn’t control, somehow. But I just couldn’t find any way out of it. I couldn’t get free. There was nothing I could do. That was the part that really frightened me—”

Hours later, Jenevra finally stopped crying, and was nestled up against Blaise, held safely within his arms. Looking up she saw he was laying peacefully, his eyes closed. Sprawled, loose-limbed across the counterpane he looked much younger asleep the princess decided, studying him thoughtfully. Even his moustache looked more relaxed, she thought; a faint smile beginning to pull at the corners of her mouth. Shadows from the lamplight accentuated his jaw and cheekbones, picking out the deep gold and red tones in his hair, warming the light tan of his skin. Jenevra fought a compulsion to reach out and run a finger down the straight, almost pointed nose to his moustache; but, before she could stop herself, she leaned forward and kissed him; the merest whisper of a kiss, barely touching his lips with hers.

Pulling back, slowly opening her eyes, Jenevra looked with embarrassment into Captain Tessier’s amused gaze. “I thought you were asleep,” she apologized.

“Not anymore,” he smiled. Even in the low light, Blaise could see the faint blush on her cheeks. Leaning up on one elbow, Blaise tickled the side of her neck. “If we’re going to be married, Jenn, you’ll have to learn to kiss me properly.”

“And who said I’m marrying you?” Jenevra’s tone finally approached the challenging tone he knew so well.

Blaise laughed. “After all this unaccompanied time alone in your room with you, there’ll be more of a scandal if we don’t get married pretty soon. Not to mention what your Aunt’s reaction might be if I was to tell her we spent the night together in a brothel!” He grinned smugly. “Why don’t you just admit I’ve won and kiss me?”

“Won?” One of Jenevra’s eyebrows lifted quizzically and, for the first time in weeks, a definite glimmer of mischief appeared in her eyes. “We’ll see who’s won, Captain.” Lowering her face to his, she kissed him thoroughly; breathing in that familiar lemon-mint aroma that always seemed to hover around him. “Surrender, Captain?”

“I’m an Imperial Flight Captain,” Tessier murmured. “We don’t give up that easily. Do your worst!”

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Christiana entered Jenevra’s room unusually early the following morning, catching her sister still asleep, hair loosely scattered across the pillows for the first time in weeks. Taking a cup of tea from Anna, Jenevra’s maid, Christiana pulled a chair to the side of the bed facing her sister, waiting for her to wake up.

Vaguely aware of movement in the room, Jenevra opened one eye sleepily. “Oh, it’s you,” she murmured. “You’re up early. Something wrong?”

“Apart from you not coming to dinner last night? Oh yes, and Captain Tessier not coming to dinner last night. You tell me, Jenn. Is something wrong?” Christiana crossed one leg over the other; fixing Jenevra with what she hoped was an imperiously regal stare: which dissolved into a disbelieving groan as she saw the blissful smile that wreathed itself across Jenevra’s face. The Empress sighed, her shoulders slumping dramatically. “Oh no, Jenn! Tell me you haven’t convinced yourself you’re in love with him? What time did he leave? He did leave didn’t he?”

Rolling onto her side to look at Christiana, Jenevra snuggled deeper into her pillow. “He left. We talked for a long time, but he did leave.”

“I thought you were adamant that you weren’t going to let sentiment get in your way again? Wasn’t that last week’s statement”

Jenevra nodded, “It was. But what if this is as good as it gets?” She gestured to her leg, and the cane she was using for walking. “What if I can’t do what Phillip or the Order need anymore? Where does that leave me?”

“Are you mad? Married? Today?” Phillip’s normally composed manner was fraying around the edges as he regarded the pair in front of him. Christiana was glaring at him, arms folded.

Jenevra and Blaise nodded at him, hand in hand, hopeful desperation in each of their faces.

Phillip shook his head, barely believing he was going to allow it, but deciding that the happiness—and sanity—in Jenevra’s eyes was worth it … for as long as it lasted. She’d already been through too much on his behalf for him to deny her anything. “Fine … whatever,” he waved at them. “Go ahead and get married. You won’t be staying at court will you? I don’t think we can take the upheaval of the two of you together!”

“We couldn’t desert you, dearest cousin,” Jenevra beamed at him, and he couldn’t help but smile too as he saw the cousin he remembered back again. “Of course we’ll be staying. Where would you be without your best Flight Captains anyway?”

The Flight was ecstatic to see their young Captain up and around again when she visited them that morning, although most of them were surprised that her leg was still as bad as it was.

“It’s going to be a long time before I’m back running, or climbing,” she told them, disconsolately. She spent a little time with each of them as they were unsaddling their horses and unloading equipment from them. Brogan strode around barking orders as usual, and the Flight continued with their normal quiet efficiency. Bernardo lifted her up to carry her back into the palace, and Farid walked alongside them for a moment.

“You’re sure you want to stay with this Flight, Your Highness?” Jenevra asked him pointedly. “You know your rank really—”

Farid’s eyes met hers. “As does yours, Your Highness.”

“Point taken … but I had to ask.”

He nodded gravely. “Princess, did Captain Tessier tell you anything about me?”

“Yes, he did. I think it helped, Farid. Thank you.”

“If you ever need to talk about it, Princess … you know where to find me.” Farid reached out, taking her hands in his and kissing them. Saluting her with the Labrian gesture of palms to heart, he left them.

“You need to eat something, you’re like a wraith,” Bernardo admonished her as he carried her into her room. “You’ll never have the strength to get back with the Flight if you don’t eat properly.” He departed, threatening to take over the kitchens if she didn’t start looking better soon.

Christiana was waiting in Jenevra’s room, subtly understated in a creamy damask dress. “I was wondering if you were ever coming back to get ready. You do know you’re getting married don’t you?” She gave Jenevra a fondly exasperated smile, pulling the younger girl to sit in front of the fire while she brushed her hair out for her.

Christiana smiled widely. “Phillip decided that rushed weddings are a good idea, because no-one has time to fuss over the arrangements, so Raik and Aunt Neilla are getting married too!”

“Was it a royal command?” Jenevra asked, grinning at the thought of it.

“Pretty much, yes…so Serena and Lennia are busy getting Aunt Neilla ready.” Christiana drew the brush through Jenevra’s hair. “Do you want me to re-braid this for you…or are you leaving it loose?” She asked apprehensively. Jenevra had been almost neurotic about not having her hair loose about her when she had first been brought back so badly hurt, but after seeing it loose in the morning, Christiana wasn’t sure now. “I have an idea,” she told Jenevra. “What if I just wrap a ribbon around it…all the way down. It’ll look almost as if there was a braid, but it’ll be easy to take it out if you want to.”

Clera Wargentin entered the room, greeting both girls with a warm kiss. “So, you are crazy enough to take Blaise on?” she laughed. “From what Baran’s told me, I’m not entirely sure which one of you I feel most sympathy for.”

The two sisters grinned at her.

“None of us do,” Christiana agreed. “The only thing we’re all sure of is that they deserve each other!” Pulling Jenevra’s hair back and twisting it slightly along its own length, she asked Clera to hold it while she wrapped a long piece of pale pink ribbon around it, crossing it over at regular intervals and tying it neatly at the end. “There, that looks fine. Which dress are you wearing, Jenn? The blue one you had for my wedding looks good on you…and the Captain missed out on that one, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Jenevra mourned. “And even I quite like me in that one! But I think it’s too low cut across the back for me to wear it just yet, Chris. Lady Menzetti sent one that I thought I’d wear.” She pulled a pale pink velvet gown, the color of the jasmine that grew on the Menzetti estate, from behind the screen where it had been airing. She wasn’t sure what Lady Menzetti had been thinking when she had it made in pink given Jenevra’s usual preference for gray or dark colors, and the style was distinctly older, but it touched something wistful within her.

Graea’s health had been bad again lately, but she had sent the dress to the princess several weeks earlier, and Jenevra was already planning on going back to Mirizir to visit her soon.

“Pink? You?” Christiana was astounded.

“Yes,” Jenevra blushed slightly. “I like it.” Her cheeks burned as her sister’s blue eyes gazed steadily at her. “Can you just help me get it on? And you can stop looking at me like that Chris…”

Against Wynn’s express instructions, Jenevra took the bandages and splints off her leg. “Just for today, Chris. I’ll put them back on tomorrow…you don’t need to mention it to anyone!”

As they helped Jenevra into the pink gown, Clera asked her quietly if Blaise had talked to her about Farid. “I don’t know if it’s any help at all, Jenevra,” she said. “But I saw Farid’s back. It’s almost completely faded now. If he wasn’t so tanned you’d barely be able to see it at all.”

Understanding what Clera was trying to tell her, Jenevra smiled at her nervously. “I suppose we’d better get going soon. Is Richard meeting us here?”

Stephan had disappeared back down to Abalos-Colles to see Allegra as soon as Jenevra had regained consciousness, and didn’t know about this wedding, so Richard was giving his sister away. He arrived in plenty of time to carry Jenevra down to the Temple, depositing her at the entrance next to Arrilia Neilla, who looked lovely in a pale gold gown that reflected in her dark eyes.

Arrilia Neilla hugged Jenevra, tears in her eyes. “You look beautiful, Jenn. Did you know that’s the same color your mother wore when she married your father?”

Jenevra hugged her back. “No, I didn’t.” She laughed. “I should have known Graea would have a reason for it.”

At a signal from the priest, they walked into the Temple; Jenevra on Richard’s arm and Arrilia Neilla on Phillip’s. Raik and Blaise were waiting by the altar; both dressed, as most of the men present were, in the formal blue uniforms of the Imperial War Host.

The priest leaned forward to speak words of welcome to Jenevra and Arrilia Neilla; thrilled that he had the privilege of conducting two royal weddings in this small family temple, rather than having to watch the High Priest perform them in the central Temple. It made the whole event far more personal and comfortable for all involved, although Jenevra could still hear Lennia sniffing when Arrilia Neilla and Raik exchanged their vows.

Jenevra had always loved the marriage vows in the traditional service, but she found a deep new meaning in them as she repeated them looking into Blaise’s eyes in this Temple, under the comforting circle of stars. She knew he had found something in that Temple too after he had felt the peace in there the previous day; and there was an intensity in his voice that everyone noticed.

Returning to the palace as the service concluded, Blaise carried Jenevra. “You look beautiful,” he murmured into her ear. “Although I almost thought you might turn up in a sheet.”

“And I thought you preferred me when I’m half-drowned,” Jenevra grinned.

Following a lengthy dinner, the older contingent of the party decided to adjourn to the Dowager Empress’ suite.

“Fine idea,” agreed Phillip. “We’ll all go to my rooms and have drinks up there.” His wife still being less than pleased with him about the rushed nature of these weddings, he was hoping to mellow her out a little more before bedtime.

Phillip and Christiana were sitting together, as were Baran and Clera. Richard had joined them, as had Jann Crevaux. Jenevra sat between Blaise and her brother. The beer had been flowing quite freely earlier, and now that they’d begun on wine, the men were getting louder.

Clera and Christiana exchanged a long-suffering look as Baran and Phillip started arguing good-naturedly about something. Jenevra was talking to Richard who was complaining that she’d married. “Honestly, Jenn, we were just getting to know each other and now you go off and get married too. Stephan’s off with Allegra and I’m all my own.”

“That’s how I’ve felt for years. You’ll get over it,” Jenevra said unsympathetically. “Anyway, you’re not really on your own, are you? Or, at least, you needn’t be.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Richard folded his arms defensively.

“Of course you don’t. Really, Richard, how stupid do you think everyone is?” Jenevra noted sarcastically. “You know, there’s always Coural. Anyway it’s up to you isn’t it? You know I love you whatever, don’t you?” She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek, whispering, “Both of you.”

Richard’s face changed; a look of panic emerging. “You haven’t told anyone have you?”

“Of course not. It’s no-one else’s business.”

“Does Chris know? Or Stephan?”

“I don’t know, Richard … really. I doubt Stephan would have guessed, but Chris may have. I haven’t talked to either of them about it, so I don’t know for sure.”

“What about Tessier?”

She shook her head. “Will you calm down? I told you, I haven’t told anyone. I just don’t want to see you thinking you always have to be alone. If you want my help, it’s there, that’s all.” She patted his cheek, brushing his hair away from his eyes. “I like your hair that bit longer too,” she smiled, laying her cheek against his for a moment.

“Jenn?” Blaise tugged at her other sleeve. “Any time for me?”

Blaise carried her back to their room; Jenevra’s room. “Tired?” He asked, kicking his boots off and throwing his jacket over a chair.

“Just a little,” she looked up through her lashes at him, pulling at the ties on his shirt. “Wynn made my usual tonic a bit stronger tonight.”

Holding her close and kissing her, he unlaced the back of her gown. As his fingers touched the bare skin of her back he hesitated. “Are you sure you’re alright with this, Jenn?” He whispered, his hair falling forward around her face. “We have all the time we need. Just tell me if you need me to stop.”

“Are you just going to talk about this all night, Captain?” She tugged at his shirt again and he ducked his head so she could pull it right off. Kissing the small scar on his shoulder from the arrow she’d removed, she tipped her head back to look into his eyes; the wine they’d drunk giving her that same kaleidoscope effect of gold, black and brown specks floating in his eyes like a universe. Sighing happily as he kissed her again, working his way along her neck and shoulders, Jenevra shrugged her way out of her dress and under clothes, white and pink folds collecting around her feet like the fallen blossoms in the orchard; leaving her naked in his arms.

“Well, you’re certainly relaxed,” Blaise smiled as he laid her on the bed, pulling a soft woolen blanket over them. Sliding next to her he held her slender form against him, softly caressing the long limbs, tenderly exploring the lithe body he’d so longed to possess. His fingers traced the lines of the sword cuts across the front of her body, slowly trailing upwards to her breasts. As his mouth followed his fingers, he felt her tense against him. Raising his eyes to her face, he saw fear there and immediately stopped, bringing her close to him, holding her head against his shoulder. “It’s alright, Jenn. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m so sorry, Blaise,” she mumbled into his chest. “I really thought the wine would make sure this didn’t happen.” She raised tear-filled eyes to him.

“Jenn,” he kissed her gently. “Even without anything else, chances are this would still be weird for you. It’s our first time. We have all night … every night for the rest of our lives, to make this work. You just need to relax.” Talking softly he pulled the covers over both of them, shedding the rest of his clothes somewhere in the process. Stroking the tension out of her again, he let his hand slide tenderly down her back, waiting anxiously to see if she would tense again. Working slowly, he let her become accustomed to his touch, feeling every little tremor that proved he was making headway. As his hand stroked the side of her breast again, he kissed her face, her mouth, whispering soothingly to her. “It’s me … Blaise. Trust me, Jenn. I won’t hurt you.” His fingers ran lightly over the smooth mound again as his eyes held hers, reassuring her that it wasn’t a memory or a nightmare.

Losing herself in his eyes again, Jenevra heard the words echoing like a mantra in her mind; trust him, trust him. Her fingers lingered over each part of his body, learning new feelings; the hard long muscles of his back, the soft hair on his chest and stomach, the lines of old scars, the scratchy stubble of his almost close shave. She smiled as his moustache and light beard tickled her; gasped as his fingers and mouth discovered newly sensitive parts of her body. When his hand drifted gently down across her hip, her heart pounded as if it was trying to jump out of her chest; her breathing rapid and shallow.

Recognizing, but not quite understanding, the near panic in her, Blaise pulled back slightly; elated when she put his hand back, knowing she was trying to let him know she trusted him, whatever her reactions seemed to be saying. Shivering as his hand dipped lower, she put her hand against his chest to stop him from kissing her, watching his dark eyes intently as he finally touched her inside. The question he could read clearly in her eyes was answered by the gleam of satisfaction he couldn’t quite manage to keep from his own. She could never be sure exactly when she finally gave her complete trust to him, but knew only an explosion of sensations deep within that left her happy and exhausted cradled in his arms. “That was incredible,” she breathed, rolling away onto her back, eyes wide. “Is it always like that?”

Blaise laughed, kissing the long scar across her ribs. “I have a strange feeling that it might be, with you.” Leaning on his elbow next to her he pulled a long strand of her hair forward, tickling her stomach with it. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“More than all right.” She slid closer to him again, happier than she had ever felt before. “When can we do that again?”

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

In the early hours of the morning, Emperor Phillip Marissime slid out of the bed he shared with his beautiful, sleeping wife and, racked by guilt, sank into a chair by the dying fire. Prodding it to new life, he took a thin sheet of paper out of the pocket of his robe. Unfolding it again, he read it for what felt like the thousandth time, resting his head in his hands as he came to the same conclusion as he had every other time he’d read it. His thoughts were as black as the robe he wore.

It simply wasn’t fair.

It didn’t matter how he tried to look at it, he knew he would have a hard time living with himself in the months and years to come if things turned out the way the letter said they would. And why would he doubt it? Everything else the Dai-Nimh had written to him had come to pass. Why wouldn’t the rest of it—the part he hadn’t shared with anyone else—be equally accurate?

Still, he couldn’t help the tremendously guilty feelings that were crowding him. Why had he allowed Jenevra to marry Tessier? Knowing it was doomed, how could he have promised her a moment of happiness knowing he would dash it away from her as soon as she was fit enough?

Because you wanted her to know that happiness even if only for a brief time, he tried to justify it to himself. Even if that happiness would be poisoned.

Hating everything the Order had come to mean to him, and for everything it had taken, and would demand again, from his young cousin; Phillip finally decided to let life take them as it would.

Crumpling the thin letter, he threw it onto the fire, watching it disintegrate into ash.

A Page of the lost letter from Dai-Nimh to Phillip Marissime

Prophecies tell us one of our own will lie behind the plot to threaten the Empire from within. There are also forces at work outside of your own Empire that will build and attack in the future. Deaths will be required; deaths of people you once thought you could trust. Many will be lost in the struggles. You must remain strong or the Empire will truly be lost.

While the Order here will always act for the preservation and safety of the Empire, it may be that we will finally tear ourselves apart in the struggle to do so. Know, my Emperor, that we are not the only part of our Order. We came to these lands many years ago in a split from another group. Our methods differ, as do our philosophies on the value of life and death. The ancient writings of the Order point us towards a time when the separation will be ended. As this would also suggest that one point of view will prevail, I can only pray that they will come to accept our vision, but my heart tells me this will not be so.

I believe it was necessary to take the princess into our Order against that very possibility. The inclusion of a woman in either section of our Order has always been contentious. It goes against every tradition we hold dear, but it means that she is in many ways isolated from much of the internal politics of the Order. The isolation is what makes the choice of a woman so valuable in the circumstances. Always working to prove herself against the men, she remains apart; never quite fully accepted and so, therefore, also not likely to be influenced by them. It is a hard thing to do; to train and fight for acceptance against the best, to prove yourself over and over again only to have every step and achievement questioned.

The princess has always remained slightly separate from others throughout her short life. The tragic loss of her parents was merely one step in the long road towards creating the young woman she is today. Distancing her from friends and family was another step. She will take paths through this life that will demand her solitude and isolation from others: sacrifices she will be asked to make over and over again. It was necessary to make harsh choices to bring her to this point.

Never doubt that she can do what is needed. Rarely have I seen anyone with her resolve: certainly not at her age. Her training has already taken her along paths of darkness that you might hesitate to put before her. Her commitment to her training has been total, as is her devotion to the Order. It has not been an easy path for her, and there are struggles ahead for her, particularly if what I have seen comes to pass.

Do not fear for her; she is stronger than you can ever comprehend. She would willingly lay down her life for yours, or to protect the Empire, and that is why she is returning to you now. Even in your world of court and Empire she will be forced to make choices that require her to choose the loneliest paths. Do not be afraid of this. She is your cousin, I understand this; but you will be Emperor, and you cannot afford misplaced weakness. Use her as you need to. She understands—even to the point of death—it is what she has trained for.

I sense the time approaching when the betrayals will begin. It may very well prove to be the last days of this Order. She is safer with you for now. The betrayals will start here, this much I have seen. She will avenge us, but she must be free to do so. This is where you have power to help us. Find a way to allow her to act as your arm within the Empire.

If she remains alive at the end of the turmoil, please indulge an old man’s wishes and kiss her once in memory of me. My regrets, such as I permit myself, are all for her, for the loneliness we are forcing upon her; a child with an incomprehensible capacity for love given how lacking it has been in her own life. The last five years have been tempestuous with her here, yet I find myself deeply saddened at the thought of her leaving. Know also that she is named in prophecy. I have tested the words, and I am convinced that she is the one spoken of as The Eligia Shala; the prophetess of Storms; whose life will be spent in turmoil and strife.

Her personal commitment and loyalty to you should remain without any question in your own mind. It is absolute. Above all else, Your Highness, trust her judgment, and her heart. I leave her with you.

Reprinted with kind permission of the Imperial Archives, Salanova.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE