“Some would say my fashion sense is unique and forward-thinking.”
“Yes, and such a sense is not one to parade about during a royal questioning.” Ludivine raised an eyebrow at one of her maids. “I need the jeweled combs on the table there.”
Once Ludivine had pinned back her long, dark hair, Rielle checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked small and strange, the softness of her dress in stark contrast to the red scratches on her face, the shadows under her sharp green eyes.
“If you’re finished,” came her father’s voice.
Rielle closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, but before she could move, Ludivine drew her into a warm embrace and kissed her on the cheek.
“Remember,” Ludivine whispered, “if anyone wants to hurt you, they’ll have to go through me. And Audric. And Tal. And many, many others. The king will not act rashly. Trust him. Trust us.”
Rielle held Ludivine to her for another moment, then stepped out from the dressing screen. Her father offered her his arm; reluctantly, she took it.
“Father,” she began, “before we go down—”
He ignored her. “Everyone in this castle is starving for gossip at the moment. Do not speak of anything important while they bring us downstairs.”
“They?” she asked, but once they stepped into the sitting room, she understood.
Twenty soldiers of the royal guard waited for them, lining the path out of Ludivine’s apartment with their swords drawn.
Rielle faltered only for a moment as the guards escorted them out into the windowed hallway, where morning sunlight bathed the polished stone in gold.
She lifted her chin, set her jaw. Audric was still alive. She did not regret what she had done.
Good, came the voice, pleased. You should regret nothing. It was past time.
She was feverish. She was exhausted, hearing things.
Nevertheless…
Who are you? she thought.
There was no answer.
The silence unnerved her, and though it was childish, she couldn’t help but say quietly to her father, “I am not afraid.”
“My daughter,” he replied, something new and haggard in his voice, “you should be.”
8
Eliana
“They call him the Wolf. He’s the Prophet’s favorite, our informants tell us. They say he cannot be captured, but rest assured, my lord: we will find this Wolf, carve every secret from his body, and leave him to bleed dry.”
—Report written by Lord Arkelion of Ventera to His Holy Majesty, the Emperor of the Undying
June 21, Year 1018 of the Third Age The Wolf bound her hands to the stair banister and ordered her to sit on the bottom step. Then, to her surprise, he took off his own mask and lowered his hood.
Eliana’s madam acquaintance had greatly exaggerated.
His scars were silvered streaks across his forehead, nose, and cheeks. There were patches of marred skin, worn from fire or wind, but the face itself, framed by tousled ash-blond hair, was stern, sharp. Handsome.
But the madam had been right about his eyes: winter blue and diamond cold.
“See something you like?” Eliana glanced up at him through her lashes. Shifted her body toward him, arched her back just enough to make a point.
The Wolf knelt before her. “You’re good.”
Grinning, she looked him up and down—lean and tall, slim-fitting trousers and vest and cuffed sleeves, weapon holsters on a sash around his torso and a low-slung belt around his hips. “So are you, Wolf. It’s a shame I’ll have to kill you. Were our circumstances different, I’d ask to see your sword.”
“A bitter disappointment, to be sure.” Now he was the one to let his gaze roam over her. “You’re much more fun than I had imagined.”
“Fun?” She laughed low in her throat. “You’ve no idea just how fun I can be.” She leaned back as best she could with her hands bound, feigning boredom. “So. You exist after all. The mighty Wolf. Fearsome Red Crown captain, unstoppable soldier. Right hand of the Prophet himself. More like a dog than a wolf if you ask me. You rebels are all the same.”
“Are we, now?” His easy smile chilled her.
“Tell me,” she pushed on, “when you report back to the Prophet, do you crawl on your belly to him? Kiss his boots? Does he whip you for not having managed to overthrow the Emperor yet? You’d better get on with things, you know. More rebels are dying every day.” Smiling, she leaned closer, willing her pounding heart quiet. “I make sure of it.”
He shifted closer to meet her. Even kneeling, he was tall. “If you’re trying to make me angry,” he murmured, their mouths mere inches apart, “I’m afraid it won’t work.”