A knock at the door interrupted them. ‘Come,’ he said, tiredly, and a burly warrior, his face scarified and coloured with inks, entered, dragging a terrified child behind him. The girl was barely more than twelve summertides and was dressed in royal finery but Loethar noticed that her gown was torn, her face stained with tears.

‘Stracker said you asked for her, my lord,’ the man said gruffly in the language of the steppes.

‘I have changed my mind. Give her back to the mother.’

‘Already dead.’

Loethar sighed, irritated. ‘Then send the girl to her god as well. Do it immediately, no pain, make it swift.’

‘In here?’ the man asked, surprised.

The girl began to wail, having caught sight of the headless body that remained of her father.

‘No, not here,’ Loethar said slowly through gritted teeth. ‘Take her away and arrange for him to be removed as well.’ The man nodded. ‘And Vash, speak only in the language of the region now.’

‘Very good, my lord,’ he answered in perfect Set, exiting the room, dragging the screaming girl behind.

Valya wore a look of disgust. ‘Oh, Loethar, were you really planning to amuse yourself with a child? Have you no conscience?’

‘About as much as you have,’ he replied.

She laughed and he heard the false tone she tried to hide. ‘None, then.’

‘Precisely. What I actually do and what I want my men to think I do is something entirely different.’

‘Because if what you’re looking for is some companionship of the skin,’ she began flirtatiously.

He blinked with irritation. ‘I’m looking to sleep,’ he said, cutting her off again. ‘Close the door behind you. Tell no one to disturb me unless it’s about who has died among the Valisar royalty. Otherwise I don’t anticipate hearing from anyone, including you, for the next six hours.’

Loethar didn’t wait for her response, but turned and strode away into the former king’s bedroom, Vyk swooping behind him.

Corbel rode hard. He knew not just his survival but the survival of many depended on his making his destination. He was riding to a place he had never seen, following directions his father had made him repeat several times over until the legate was sure his son could reach the meeting point.

‘Ride for your life, boy,’ his father had said, his voice gruff from the emotion he was controlling. Corbel had never seen his father cry and it seemed Regor De Vis had had no intention of allowing him to glimpse the depth of his sorrow at farewelling his child. Both knew they would never see each other again. ‘This will save Gavriel’s life as much as your own,’ De Vis had added. In his father’s eyes Corbel had seen the glitter of hope and for that alone he would ride to the curious coastal location and find the man they called Sergius.

‘But how will I know him?’ he had questioned.

‘He will know you,’ the king had replied.

‘And we trust him?’

His father had nodded. ‘Implicitly.’

He had waited. Neither had added anything.

‘You know this is madness, don’t you?’ Corbel had replied, keeping his voice steady. He was not prone to outbursts. He had wished Gavriel had been present to do the ranting.

‘And now you must trust us,’ his father had added, so reasonably that whatever objection Corbel had wanted to make had remained trapped in his throat.

‘Magic?’

Brennus had looked at him sadly. ‘I envy you, Corbel.’

‘Really.’ In his fury — fury that no one but Gavriel might have noted — Corbel had wanted to demand of Brennus whether the king truly envied him the memory of killing a newborn child but his father must have guessed his son’s thoughts and had glared at him. ‘Why don’t you use it to escape, your highness?’ Corbel had said instead.

The king had sighed. ‘What a surprise for the bastard warlord that would be. Go, Corbel. Nothing matters more than your safety now. Lo’s speed.’

‘Father —’

‘Go, son. We are as clueless to your future as you. But we trust that you will be safe and remember your task. It is something worth committing your life for. One day it might restore Penraven.’

Corbel had begun to speak but his father held up his hand. ‘Not another word, Corb. I have always been proud of you and Gavriel. Make me proud now. Do as your king and your father ask.’

Forbidden further protest, Corbel De Vis had bowed. And then Brennus and Regor De Vis had embraced him.

Now Corbel’s mind felt liquid, spreading in all directions with nothing to hold it together but his aching skull and the determination to fulfil what had been asked of him, the burden heavy in his heart, its reality terrifying him.

He sped northwest, changing horses at Tomlyn, where a stablemaster was waiting for him, giving Corbel a small sack of food that Corbel ate in snatches without stopping. Once again he changed mounts, this time at Fairley, as instructed, in an identical experience.

Leaving Fairley village behind, Corbel swiftly began to follow the coastline. He rode hard, knowing only that a stone marker would tell him he had arrived. His eyes searched the side of the track, constantly roving ahead for the clue. Daylight was fast dwindling. He wondered if he’d make it in time. Minutes later, in the distance he saw a man. Slowing the horse, he finally drew alongside the figure.

‘Welcome, Corbel. I am told you are burdened with a heavy responsibility.’

Breathing hard, Corbel nodded, said nothing.

‘Ah, my eyesight is so poor that I see little but I see enough. Come, help me down the track.’

‘Track?’ Corbel repeated.

The man chuckled. ‘You’ll see it when you dismount. It leads to my humble dwelling. It’s treacherous only for me; I imagine you’ll find the descent relatively easy on your strong, young limbs.’

Corbel swung off the horse and saw steps cunningly cut into the cliff face. He could see the hut and hoped they could get there before the wind became any more fierce. The sun was setting in a fierce blaze of pink on the horizon but it was not going to be a still night.

As though he heard his thoughts, Sergius yelled above the roar of the wind, ‘Storm tonight. Bodes well for what we have to do. I think we’ll have some awakening.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘Perfect. This sort of magic works best when the elements are stirring, roaring their power.’

Corbel wondered if anyone was telling Gavriel about this. Mostly he wondered if he’d ever see his brother again.

‘What about my horse?’

The man pointed. ‘It’s going to be too fierce to leave it outside but your father took the precaution of leaving feed and water in that tiny barn — can you see it?’ Corbel nodded. ‘Good, because I can’t. It’s a blur at that distance. Anyway, tie your horse up in there. Arrangements have been made to collect it.’

‘Give me a few moments,’ Corbel said, the wind whistling now around his ears. He guided the horse to the barn and secured her inside with a bag of fresh feed and a pail of sweet water. He hoped she would be collected soon. He wished he could rub her down but there was plenty of fresh hay that she would no doubt enjoy rolling around in anyway. And this was not the time to be fretting over a horse. He secured the door and trotted back to his host. ‘It’s done,’ he said.

‘Let’s go,’ Sergius replied. ‘How pleasant to have someone to help me make that wretched trek back.’

They moved in silence, concentrating on the descent.

‘When?’ he asked as they finally arrived at the door of the hut.

The man smiled. ‘Now. Come in; I need you to drink something.’

‘What?’ Corbel asked, following Sergius into the hut.

‘No questions, no time. This,’ Sergius said, reaching for a cup on the scrubbed table, bare but for a few sweet sea daisies in a jug, ‘will cast away your resistance.’

Corbel frowned, looking inside at the contents. The liquid looked harmless and had no discernible smell.

‘You must drink it all,’ Sergius urged.

‘Only me?’

The man nodded. ‘I control my magic but I need you not to fight it. You look strong enough to do just that.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘This potion breaks resistance by making you compliant. Without it your body will instinctively fight the magic. We need you to go calmly.’

‘Where?’

‘Into the sea.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘Most people think so,’ the man replied, smiling kindly. ‘But that suits me.’

‘To drown,’ Corbel said flatly.

‘Trust me.’

‘Trust magic, don’t you mean?’

Sergius nodded, his expression filled with sympathy. ‘That too.’

‘Where am I going?’ Corbel pressed again.

‘In a way, you will choose, but whichever way you look at it, it’s away from here.’

‘Sergius?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m frightened.’

The old man smiled softly, placing his warm, dry hand on Corbel’s arm. ‘Don’t be, son. What you are doing is heroic. What I suspect you have already done was extremely courageous, more brave than either your father or the king could have managed — and they are both men of valour. You are doing this for Penraven … for the Valisar crown. Drink, Corbel.’

Mesmerised by the old man, oddly comforted by his lyrical voice and stirring words, Corbel drained the cup.

And as a bright, sharp awakening lit the night sky, Corbel De Vis walked into the sea, still burdened and filled with sorrow.

Brennus had just finished a rousing speech to his captains. The men had applauded him loudly off the makeshift podium and he could still hear their whistles and cheers. But no matter what he said or however much he had rallied their courage, even they sensed the cause was hopeless. He moved gloomily from the barracks; he had lied to the men and the only one who knew the truth of what was coming next was the man who strode in an angry silence alongside him.

Brennus broke into the awkward atmosphere between them. ‘There is no point in everyone dying, De Vis.’

‘Why do only you get to be the astoundingly brave one, your highness?’ his legate replied and his sarcasm could not be disguised.

Brennus knew his friend was hurting deeply. Sending Corbel away in the manner they did, with little explanation and no sense of what it might lead to, was taking its toll on De Vis. ‘This is not about bravery —’ he began.

‘It is, sire. We are all men of Penraven and we all feel the same way as you do. Why do you think your men proudly cheered for you? They admire your courage, and it provokes their own. We do not cower to any enemy, least of all the barbarian of the steppes.’

‘He will kill everyone who puts up resistance.’

‘So we’re already positive of failure?’ De Vis asked, his tone still sarcastic. ‘What happened to the mighty Penraven spirit? And, that aside, let us not fool one another, highness. He will kill everyone anyway! We might as well all die feeling heroic, fighting for something we believe in. I have to be honest — with my wife dead, my sons …’ He couldn’t finish.

‘What about that beautiful young thing whose hand has been offered. Are you going to ignore her?’

De Vis waved his hand as though the king’s comment was meaningless. ‘Let’s just say I have nothing I truly love to live for, other than to serve Valisar. I’m ready to die defending the crown.’

‘You always have been, Regor.’ Brennus shook his head angrily. ‘No, Loethar will not kill my people. I won’t permit such pointless savagery.’

‘He is a savage!’ De Vis spat, forgetting himself.

Brennus ignored the offence. ‘Listen to me, Regor. We know what he wants. We shall give it to him without a fight. But the terms are that he spares my people.’

‘He will not agree to such terms.’

‘You’ll be surprised.’

‘How can you be so sure, your highness?’

‘Trust me. He wants only one thing. And we know he is intelligent. What point is there to razing a city, killing all its inhabitants, when you want to be emperor? He needs people to rule. I’d rather Penravians answered to him until Leo is old enough to know his duty, to take action and avenge my death. This way at least there is hope for the Valisar resurrection.’

‘You truly believe Leo will claim back the realm?’

‘De Vis, don’t ask me such a question as though you yourself cannot believe in it! I have to hope. It’s all I have left.’ He shook his head, still very much in a state of disbelief. ‘I killed a baby!’ He didn’t admit that he’d had someone else do it and De Vis did not remind him who would truly bear the burden of that murder. ‘My wife …’ the king began, his voice leaden with grief.

‘She does not know, highness. She will never know. Gavriel will keep the secret.’

‘And Corbel … the murderer? How will he live with himself with an innocent’s blood on his hands? How can I? Corbel is as innocent as the child. The guilt is all mine.’

De Vis grit his teeth. There was no time now for this indulgent self-recrimination, especially when the child involved was his. The truth was that he did not know how he would come to terms with allowing his son to be given the task and then, in the midst of the young man’s fear and loathing, sending him away from everything familiar. ‘Corbel is gone, your highness. He is old enough to deal with his own demons. He will seek Lo’s forgiveness in his own way.’

‘I’ve asked too much of your family, De Vis.’

‘We always have more to give, your highness.’

Brennus stopped, took his friend’s hand and laid it against his heart. ‘Let me do this alone, Regor,’ he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion.

De Vis shook his head sadly. ‘I cannot, your highness. I took an oath before your father as he lay dying. I intend to remain true to that promise and to my realm. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is now time to hand over all hope to our children. But we must make one final sacrifice in order to buy them time, give them that chance to avenge us.’

The king finally nodded. ‘Then organise a parley. Make Loethar an offer he finds irresistible. Surely even the barbarians grow weary of battle.’

‘I shall send out a messenger.’

‘No need,’ Brennus said, smiling sadly in the torchlight. ‘He will already be here, watching us.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He took Barronel. I don’t imagine he could be this close to his prize and not search it out as fast as he could.’

‘Why has he not shown himself then, made demands?’

‘Because he’s savouring the moment, I imagine. I can feel him out there. He’s watching, waiting, enjoying our fear.’

‘What do you want me to do, highness?’

‘Ride out. He’ll meet with you. I’ll tell you what to say.’

De Vis shocked the king by dropping to one knee. ‘Your majesty, I beg you. Those who chose to flee already have. They’ve had enough time to reach the coast. Others, well,’ he shrugged. ‘They’ve decided to remain, take their chances, and they already know not to take arms against him. He will not slaughter them. But he cannot take Brighthelm with such ease. If it falls, let it fall with honour, nobly fighting. I shall go and meet with him — if he is to be found outside the city stronghold — but rather than making offers let us listen first to his demand.’

Brennus looked pained. ‘We already know what he wants, man! We can give it to him immediately and avert any further bloodshed.’

‘Your highness, humour me in this last request. Let me look our attacker in the eye. Let me fully understand what motivates him before I make any offer. If we are to die, let’s do so in the full knowledge of his reasoning.’

Brennus hesitated. He knew that De Vis’s plan was flawed, for it would only prolong the agony of what they faced. It was the vision of Iselda clutching the baby daughter that prompted him to agree. Surrendering slightly later rather than now would give him a few more days with the woman he loved, a few more days to ease his deeply troubled soul … a few more days to make his peace with Lo.

‘As you wish,’ he said, sighing softly.

De Vis kissed his king’s ring. ‘Thank you, your majesty.’

Del Faren was in love. The object of this love was the daughter of the sculptor Sesaro, who had been commissioned no fewer than three times to produce a likeness in polished stone of King Brennus. Not even into his sixth decade and young for someone already of his stature, Sesaro’s soaring career as one of the realm’s most popular artisans had already been cut short by fear of war. He had been working on a new fountain, a vast piece that was to grace one of the new squares that the crown had commissioned be built. The city had sprawled way beyond its original boundaries and the central marketplace no longer offered ease of access for people. King Brennus, who prided himself on design, had made a bold decision to re-model the city. He had drawn up his ideas and a city architect had been appointed to oversee the grand project that would yield three main squares. The current central square would function solely as a meeting place for Penravians, while one of the new squares would become the political area of the city, where the realm’s dignatories, councillors, and lords would meet for discussion and where formal ceremonies would take place on behalf of the crown. The other new square would be purpose-built for the new covered marketplace. Brennus’s recent extended voyage and stay at the city of Percheron — as a guest of Zar Azal — had opened his eyes to the beauty of a bazaar. Although Penraven’s market would hardly be filled with the aroma of Percheron’s mysterious spices, Brennus wanted to borrow the concept that people could do their marketing under cover and that permanent shops could be set up for the wealthier merchants. He was intrigued by the cunning use of wind-driven wooden sails in the Percherese bazaar, which brought fresh air through the covered alleyways and drove the stale air back outside. The coolness of its marble impressed him and more than anything his breath had been taken away by the souk’s sheer beauty, and the idea that something so functional could still be a piece of art. He wanted to leave a similar legacy to what Azal’s great-grandfather, Joreb, had begun, in ensuring that Percheron would be a place of singular beauty for its people as much as the visitor. Brennus hoped that Penraven and its capital of Brighthelm would be talked about as a city of bold beauty and although his city would not sparkle pale and pastel as Percheron did, he had hopes that it would be nonetheless dazzling in its use of the local multi-coloured stone.

But all of these plans, including Sesaro’s beloved fountain featuring the famous serpent of Valisar, had now been suddenly made irrelevant by the arrival of war. The threat had not arrested the soldier Faren’s love for Tashi, however, and he still planned to ask for her hand in marriage, despite her protestations.

‘Del, you are very sweet and very handsome but my father will want to give my hand to someone who can afford me the type of life that he wishes for his only daughter,’ she had explained gently, once again, only the previous evening. ‘And now with war all but upon us …’

‘Don’t speak of that, my love,’ Faren had beseeched. ‘Let us only focus on how much we love each other.’

‘I cannot deny that I have had feelings for you but we must be sensible. You are a foot soldier.’

‘An aspiring archer,’ he corrected.

She had nodded her acknowledgment as she continued. ‘Nevertheless, if I am to marry a military man my father would agree to nothing less than commander. I hear the legate needs a new wife,’ she had admitted, laughing coquettishly.

He had known in his heart that Sesaro would not be impressed by a mere archer, but he had remained undaunted, determined that he would win her, come what may. He had grabbed her around the waist and kissed her neck as she had tried to squirm away from his touch. ‘Bah, surely your father would want you to marry someone who is nineteen, not thirty years older? I will give you strong sons who will continue your father’s art and my military career, and daughters as beautiful as their mother to take care of their grandfather in his dotage.’

She had smiled at this. He had continued. ‘I have prospects, Tashi. I can be a major in a few years. Just watch me rise through the ranks with my courage and cunning.’ He had arched an eyebrow on the last word, laced his voice with a conspiratorial tone to amuse her, and pressed on. ‘We can have our own farm. I will ensure I’m based here in Brighthelm, we can —’

‘Del, you are dreaming. The barbarian is on our doorstep. This is no time to talk of marriage or children, farms or futures. We have to worry about surviving tomorrow. I beg you, stop this.’

‘I shall speak to your father.’

‘No!’

‘Why?’

‘I have told you why. Now, please, you must leave. I have errands to run and you surely have somewhere to be, knowing what our realm faces.’ And she had pulled herself from his grip, clearly growing tired of the ardent kisses he had been peppering on her sweet-smelling neck.

‘Tashi, I love you!’ he had called to her retreating back.

And she had turned. ‘I know, but it’s hopeless. You’re a boy. My father wants me to marry a man. I cannot see you again.’

What Tashi hadn’t explained to her besotted young lover was that Sesaro had already promised her to another, and it was only by chance that Faren discovered the truth later in the day. His commander had taken him off his usual duties to help another unit that was working on the battlements. ‘Your archery skills are put to far better use up on top, Faren,’ the commander had said. ‘Tell Commander Jobe that I have sent you. We need keen eyes and steady hands up there.’

Faren had leapt at the chance. If he acquitted himself well he could leapfrog perhaps even to captain, and that alone would prove to Tashi’s family that he was worth taking note of. Arriving at the battlements, he had presented himself to Jobe, who had nodded his happiness to have another talented archer at his disposal. He had been told to meet the others and to choose a weapon that suited his preferred weight and bow tension.

Faren had been in the process of doing this when he overheard several of the men joking together.

‘… she’s a beauty, ripe and ready,’ one of the men had said.

Another gave a low whistle. ‘She makes me feel weak whenever I glimpse her running through the market on her errands. The old man’s already given his permission, even provided the ring. It was her mother’s apparently so the lucky arse doesn’t even have to buy that and let’s face it he can afford anything he likes with who his friend is.’

The first nodded. ‘I’d give my left nut for a night with her.’

This had made the four men laugh and prompted a rush of lewd comments.

‘Ssh, here comes the captain.’

Faren had noticed a tall man walk up. ‘And what are you lot up to?’

‘Just checking the tensions on the bows, sir.’

Faren watched the captain’s scowl soften. ‘Listen, I know this is a rough time for all of us so I don’t mean to spoil what little time you have left for normal life. It’s all about to change dramatically and I wish it wasn’t so, but the legate’s aiming to have a parley. We should know by tonight exactly what we’re in for.’

‘Is he marrying her, then, captain, before the parley?’ the first soldier had asked, cheekily.

‘That’s none of your business, Brek. What the legate does is his affair.’ The captain’s mouth twitched at the corners. ‘But I think I would, war or not!’

This comment appeared to give the men permission to relax and they began to chuckle among themselves about how the ‘old man’ would need to take horse pills to keep his new bride satisfied in the marital bed. The jesting had turned darker, one man commenting that he’d better hurry up and enjoy her delights because Loethar wouldn’t spare him once the barbarian arrived.

Faren had only been half listening to the jesting when he heard one of the men mutter the name Sesaro. And then he heard the captain murmur ‘Tashi’ and his attention was more than pricked — it had become riveted. The more he listened, the more his mood had plummeted from intrigued, to alarmed, to dismayed and finally to enraged. They were talking about his prospective wife; it was Tashi to whom they had been making bawdy reference. And if he was to believe their gossip, then Sesaro had promised Tashi to Legate De Vis. It couldn’t be true!

‘You, Faren! What are you staring at?’ The captain shouted, noticing Faren’s attention.

‘Sir! Er, sorry, I was far away.’

‘Lo strike me, soldier, how can we rely on you to shoot straight if you aren’t even focused on your bow?’

‘Sorry, sir.’

The captain had sighed. ‘It’s all right, Faren. I think we’re all a bit jumpy.’

‘I couldn’t help overhearing, sir.’

His superior’s expression had turned sour. ‘Well, we shouldn’t be discussing Legate De Vis’s personal life.’

‘Do you mind my asking, though, sir, was this Tashi, Sesaro’s daughter? I know her but she hasn’t mentioned anything about a betrothal to me.’

‘It’s not my business to pass on private information, Archer Faren. You know that.’

‘I do sir, sorry sir, but Tashi is a friend and it might explain why she has seemed distant and worried,’ Faren had lied. ‘I thought she was fretting over the war —’

‘And I don’t doubt she is!’ the captain cut in.

‘Yes, sir, but I think from what the other men were saying that she’s probably upset about the legate.’

‘And you think you can help, do you, Faren?’

Faren shrugged, his rage burning but tightly disguised. ‘I can try. We grew up together, you see, so she trusts me.’

‘There’s really nothing you can do, Faren. You misunderstand. The reluctance is not on the part of Sesaro’s daughter. Her hand is already given. She is — from what I can gather — the enthusiastic partner to this potential marriage. It’s Legate De Vis who hesitates, so unless you have the ear of the legate and can advise him in his love life, I would suggest you get back to tightening that bow and worrying about landing real arrows into the hearts of our enemy rather than make-believe ones into those of lovers.’

So it was true. As the captain left him with a friendly squeeze to his arm, Faren had bristled with fury. That was why Tashi had cooled off toward him these past few weeks; she had only been playing with him, teasing him and enjoying his attention, his gifts, his youth. She’d hinted as much earlier today. He had to see her again; hear it from her lips, watch her head hang with shame as she explained herself.

‘Sir?’

‘You again, Faren?’

‘The wax is a bit dry. I think I shall need a fresh pot from the stores.’

‘You don’t need my permission,’ the captain had said, his tone brisk and slightly annoyed.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Faren said, hurrying towards the stairs.

‘Why they send up the dungeon boys I don’t know,’ the captain murmured under his breath. ‘I think they get overawed, shooting their bows up this high.’

‘They’ll be the death of us, right, captain?’ someone had quipped and everyone who heard it grinned, including Faren. But Faren’s had been the grim smile of the executioner.

The day had passed in a strange string of hours for Gavriel, linking weapons practice, a brief ride around the castle park, and kicking around leather stretched over a ball framework of the dried, highly flexible asprey reeds that held an inflated, waxed sheep’s bladder. This more frenzied activity had been punctuated by various meals, a visit to the chapel to say a prayer and light another candle for the dead princess and a meeting with the royal tutors who apologised that studies had been cancelled until further notice. All of this was highly unusual for Gavriel, of course, but for the prince much of it was a normal day’s proceedings, without the dreaded letters, numbers, and language. After the main meal of their day, which they had shared alone in Leo’s chambers, and as dusk gave way to twilight, Gavriel saw to it that the prince cleaned himself up, changed into fresh clothes and was presented neat and tidy to the queen. It had been an hour, probably more, since Gavriel had delivered the boy to the hollow, all-knowing aide known simply as Freath who greeted them at the entrance to Queen Iselda’s suite.

‘Good evening, majesty,’ he had said in his slow baritone. He glanced toward Gavriel, his gaze sliding quickly away.

Young though he was, Leo was a perceptive child and missed little. ‘Hello, Freath. I now have a full-time minder. This is Gavriel De Vis — I think you know his father.’

‘Indeed, I do,’ the man had said, not offering a hand. ‘You may wait outside for Prince Leonel,’ he said to Gavriel, who sensed the prince wince at the use of his full name.

As far as Gavriel knew, everyone disliked Freath, including Gavriel’s father, who was arguably the most generous person he knew. Seemingly ghostlike, the servant had been at the palace for a long time and never seemed to change his intimidating demeanour. Why the queen tolerated him was a mystery but he had been her right hand since Brennus had made Iselda his bride, fifteen years previous.

Leo had been swallowed up into the doorway that Freath now blocked so Gavriel could do little more than snatch a glimpse inside but he smelled the waft of perfume, and spied soft colours and flower arrangements. The door was closed by Genrie as she emerged from the queen’s chambers.

‘You again,’ she said.

Gavriel saw no smirk, heard no disdain in her tone, but even so the greeting was hardly friendly. ‘Yes. Consider me Prince Leo’s shadow.’

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The Valisar Trilogy

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