9781911750086

“Marry the person who picks it up if she’s a woman; you shan’t marry ME!”

—

The Rose and the Ring, William Makepeace Thackeray

I give them my best shit-eating grin. “Good news, degenerates! Next round’s on Shep!”

Everyone explodes into cheers, so loud it makes the floorboards shake and the glasses on the bar clink together.

I lean over the bar, close to Shep’s weathered face. Renewed hope flits in his eyes. He puckers his lips, expecting a kiss.

Instead, I reach into his pocket and pluck out a silver stamped with the crest of Alarice. “That’s for the ale.” I fish out the remaining three coins. “And the rest is for suggesting the insult of marriage.”

His drinking buddy is crying tears of laughter now, and before Shephard can protest, I shove the coins into my apron. They land with a jingle against the rest stored there—just enough noise to remind me the night wasn’t a complete waste.

I look out into the crowd. The place is packed. Low benches and long, well-worn tables are crammed with too many bodies. Farmers and laborers sit shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee with merchants and artisans, all of them clinking mugs like they’re the best of friends. The Harvest Mother’s festival begins tomorrow, so the mood is high. Evandale doesn’t get many reasons to celebrate, with a backbreaking workday and the steep cut paid to the marquis, as predictable as the seasons. The very ale they’re drinking is the product of the farmers’ hard labor. I don’t blame them for indulging, even if it does turn the best of men into bumbling idiots.

“Need a six cupper,” Bonnie, my junior barmaid, interrupts my musing. She notices Shep, now completely passed out at the bar.

“Another proposal?” Bonnie asks, nodding in his direction. She’s a little breathless from running around doling out pints, her cheeks almost as flushed as the patrons’. “How many is that this week?”

“I lost count,” I say, pouring another mug. Bonnie stacks them high, like playing cards. She’s an expert at this.

“And you’d never consider it?” Bonnie asks.

“Marrying one of these clowns? No fuckin’ way. They’re not looking for a wife, they’re looking for a barmaid at home.”

“I heard the marquis himself proposed. Is that true?”

I let out an annoyed sigh. “That old perv asked me to be his mistress, not his wife. Disgusting.”

“Can’t be that bad, can it? Close your eyes and think of Albion?” Bonnie jokes. “You’d be set for life even without a ring.”

as their steel. They’re not from around here, but that’s not unusual. Evandale is at the crossroads of several popular routes, so we’re a prime spot for travelers to stop for the night—or longer, as they fl ee from more dangerous lands.

The sellswords don’t look up from their conversation as I serve their drinks. Apparently, the Usurper King of Penrith is hiring anyone who can lift a blade, but neither of these men is convinced the coin is worth the risk. If our King Elgar increases his soldiers’ hazard pay as he’s been promising, these men would rather sign up to defend Alarice. I’ve heard others whisper about the Usurper looking to expand his borders and make war against Loegria and Alarice, so there might be some truth to it.

I collect their empty mugs, keeping a mild, disinterested expression on my face, but they don’t even acknowledge my existence.

I’m used to being ignored. Patrons talking among themselves, keeping their voices low as I serve their drinks. They don’t think I’m listening, or simply don’t care if I am, because I’m a nobody. Barmaids couldn’t possibly care about the politics of Penrith, a kingdom half a world away. What harm would it do if I were to overhear? I’m used to being invisible, just another set dressing, and I like it that way. It’s way better than being proposed to, that’s for sure.

They continue their hushed discussion as if I’m not there. Being a nobody has its perks.

I feel someone’s gaze at my back, and every hair on my body begins to stand up. I turn to see Lord Breadalbane, Marquis of Evandale, at a table with two of his trusted lackeys. He is almost three times my age, with cold eyes and a lecherous stare that makes me feel as if I’m already standing naked before him.

Ugh. Lord Grabbyhands. That’s what the girls call him.

He stares at me like a beast does its dinner as his henchmen bicker amongst themselves. I pretend not to notice him and dodge his gaze.

I walk over to a lone traveler at a table by herself. She doesn’t hear me approach, given that a group near her has spontaneously burst out in a harvest shanty. Four scores of seven whores…

“What can I get ya?” I ask, hand on my hip.

The woman blinks up at me in surprise and adjusts her spectacles. “Tea, if you please.”

“That’s all? A tinker doesn’t want anything a little stronger?”

The woman gawks. “How’d you know I’m a tinker?”

“You’ve got a callus on your middle fi nger,” I say. The tinker looks down at her hands. “You hold a tool of some kind, something small, and for long hours. Based on that, you’re either a scholar or a tinker, but seeing as you don’t have ink stains on your fingers, that’s a giveaway.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Comes with the job,” I tell her. Years working at the bar means I’m good at reading people. You can learn more about a person from their body than what comes out of their mouth.

“Where you off to? Back home, is it?” I ask, noting her Loegrian lilt.

The tinker nods. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here and journey together, but he’s coming from Penrith, and I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him.”

Traveling from Penrith has been risky since their rightful king was overthrown a couple of decades ago.

But lately there have been more and more stories of missing travelers who disappear in Estyrion’s Great Waste—the land Boreas destroyed. I’ve never been outside of Evandale to know if these stories are any different from the tall tales the farmers spin during long winter nights to pass the time. But I’ve seen one too many terrifi ed travelers pass through my doors who whisper about something dark stirring once more in the Great Waste.

I suppress a shudder and maintain the cheerful act; my customers come to the tavern to forget their troubles for a while. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say, putting on my best smile. “You’ll meet your friend, and before you head out on your journey together, you’ll bring him back here for a much-needed drink.” I hide my creeping sense of unease at the possibility of yet another missing traveler.

I’m making my way back to the bar when the front door bursts open with such force, I’m amazed it’s still hanging on its hinges. A dozen soldiers barge into the tavern. They’re decked out head to toe in Loegrian blue, with sharp, gleaming swords at their hips. They stand shoulder to shoulder, their massive frames blocking the entrance.

I tuck my rag into my apron pocket and cross my arms over my chest. It isn’t every day that soldiers arrive at the Raven’s Beak. Even though they’re armed, they don’t look like they’re here to cause trouble.

But what business does the Loegrian royal guard have in Evandale?

Their dramatic entrance clearly didn’t have the impact they’d expected because, of course, most of my patrons don’t even give them a second

Despite his bearing and air of competence, Marcus Marcellus looks way too young to be a general. He also looks less than thrilled at his audience. “The prince is coming here in search of a bride per the terms of the treaty of mutual support between the kingdoms of Loegria and Alarice,” he declares. He sighs and glances at his men. It’s clear he’s unimpressed with the pickings so far.

That makes two of us, bud.

Under his breath, the general mumbles, “Dietan has lost his damn mind…” as he looks around. “This is a mistake.”

“We can’t leave yet, sir,” a soldier murmurs.

“I know our orders.” He turns back to the tavern, which has settled into its usual hum. Everyone ignores him. Most of them are sloppy drunk, and I doubt they’ll remember what happened come morning.

But me? I see opportunity. My brain starts to race.

As the soldiers take a table vacated by farmers who have left to stumble home to their beds, I head back to my place behind the bar.

I’m positively buzzing.

This is what I’ve been waiting for—a once-in-a-lifetime shot of getting the hell out of this dead-end town.

Shephard raises his head, the bumpy imprint of his wrinkled sleeve in the center of his forehead. “Guess you’ll be marrying that prince now instead of me, huh.”

Prince?

I almost laugh. “Me? Not a chance,” I say.

No way am I going to marry the prince… Dear Goddess, what would the prince want with me? I’m…alright-looking, I guess, but rough around the edges, to use a generous term, and the prince won’t want a princess with a salty tongue and a sharp wit. “I’ve got a better idea,” I announce a little too loudly.

“Of course she does,” a familiar voice says snidely.

As the marquis takes his final strides toward the general, he makes sure his dead eyes are fi rmly planted on me. I struggle to keep a smile plastered to my face.

The marquis extends a hand to the general, which he takes in a firm grip.

“General Marcellus, is it? Lord Breadalbane. Marquis of Evandale. It is nice to make your acquaintance. I look forward to working together to find the crown prince a bride.”

I see the glint of a gold coin pass from the marquis’ sausage-like fingers to the gloved hand of the general. “And make sure you watch out for this one,” he says, nodding at me. “She’s a wily one.”

The general shakes his head and returns the coin with a frown. Then looks to me, puzzled by the marquis’ comment, but I know his game— planting seeds of supposed ill repute. I feel utter rage bubble from my toes to the core of my stomach.

Now, I have two ideas…

CHAPTER TWO Aren

“Ow.” I suck my pricked finger and taste blood. There isn’t enough light where I’m kneeling by my sister’s petticoats. I’m working so fast and with such force that the needle went straight through my thumbnail. All I need now is to bleed all over the silk that cost a month’s wages.

Yesterday, I managed to get my hands on some rare mulberry silk, and I conjured two dresses for my sisters overnight. I only had enough to buy a precious eight yards, so I had to get creative, embellishing what I could with embroidery and scraps of lace from our mother’s trousseau. They look stunning, if I do say so myself.

“You okay?” Sonja asks.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I tell her, holding my finger away from the fabric as I finish stitching the hem. “You’re going to look perfect, even if I have to lose a thumb.”

“Don’t even joke,” Sonja says, bending down to tie a scrap of cotton around my finger.

My eyes are sore from squinting in candlelight, the tips of my fingers

ache, and I’ve poked more holes in them than a pincushion, but I’m determined to make the two of them shine.

I notice Sonja pout at her refl ection in the full-length mirror. As I watch her fluff her hair, it strikes me just how grown up the twins look. So mature, so beautiful. Where did the time go? I blinked and suddenly they’re grown women, not snot-nosed kids anymore. Sonja and Ophelia are eighteen now, seven years my junior.

They take after Mother—drop-dead gorgeous, with swanlike necks and golden hair. I often joke I was switched at birth, since I don’t look anything like them. I’d believe it if I hadn’t inherited Father’s striking nose, which suits his weathered face far more than mine.

“The prince of Loegria!” Ophelia sighs from the bed, her gown already perfectly fitted to her body. She cups her chin in her hands as she stares out the window. “Can you imagine? Here in Evandale? What do you think he looks like?”

“Hopefully handsome,” says Sonja.

“What kind of prince would he be if he wasn’t handsome?” I say mildly, not that I care in the least what he looks like.

“Not any kind of a prince at all,” Sonja says.

Either of them would make a fi ne princess, unlike me. My sisters are everything that a man of royal background would find attractive in a wife—Sonja, a graceful dancer and Ophelia with a gift for watercolors and singing. Me, on the other hand, I can only sing drinking songs and dance the jigs to go with them. It’s my job to see my sisters properly settled and looked after. They are my heart’s treasures. I raised them, after all.

Our mother died when they had just started walking and I was nine years old. While Father managed the Raven’s Beak, I was the one who cooked for the girls, cleaned up after them, nursed them when they were sick, and taught them the best I could. When Father fell ill and I had to take over the tavern as well as care for the twins, I did both without much complaint. I’d give anything for my sisters, even if this isn’t the life I imagined for myself.

I turn my eyes back to my work, catching sight of my ragged nails, my hands reddened and rough from years of manual labor. “Done,” I say, taking a pin from my teeth and placing it back in the tin. “Phi, come here so I can get a look at the two of you.”

Ophelia does as she’s told, skipping away from the bed to stand next to Sonja so they can inspect their gowns in the tall mirror.

Not even an hour later, commotion erupts outside our window, and we look out to see a gilded carriage rolling past, bobbling slightly on the bumpy dirt road.

“Is it him?” Sonja asks, running to the window. “He’s here already?”

“A day early,” I note.

“He must really want a bride,” Ophelia says, joining us at the window. The impressive carriage trundles by, flanked by soldiers on horseback, and my heart clenches. A prince such as he would surely appreciate a bride who doesn’t have a potty mouth, who takes impeccable care of her hair and clothes, and whose loftiest goal is pleasing her powerful husband. Sonja and Ophelia are the most perfect choices in Evandale.

CHAPTER THREE

Ismile and wave to the onlookers as my carriage rolls toward the center of Evandale. “Hello! Hi there!” I call out, flashing my most charming smile.

I am, after all, His Royal Highness, Dietan Cornwallis Arthur William Maximillian Conrad Barclay-Bruce Armandale-Macrae, Crown Prince of Loegria and heir presumptive to Alarice. I have as many names as jewels on my epaulets.

I am their future lord and liege, who will wed some lucky Alarician girl to seal the deal.

The crowd’s cheers rise and fall around me, and I try to focus on the variety of faces rather than the monotony of this endless journey.

“Another dead-end town,” I mutter under my breath, careful not to let anyone hear. “Who knew there were so many?” Weeks on the road and the repetitiveness of this quest have worn me down. Meet the mayor or local lord, kiss the hand of every unmarried girl of eligible age, feign interest, indicate nope, not her as often as necessary, then go on my merry way to

do it all over again at the next stop.

At least no one is pelting the carriage with tomatoes this time, but I have the windows up, just in case. I still recall the headache it gave my valet to scrub those red stains out of silk and velvet.

The kingdom of Alarice is tense, accusing my kingdom of Loegria of leaving their borders defenseless. There have been too many bandits, too many marauders on the roads lately. Naturally, they blame my father, King Donnel, for failing to maintain the peace. They are demanding the conditions of the treaty, my marriage, be fulfilled sooner rather than later. So, here I am.

I glance out the window and blink, surprised by Evandale’s idyllic charm. Unlike some other shithole Alarician towns I’ve visited lately, this place is picturesque: golden fields, tall trees, and clear blue skies for miles. The sunlight spills over vibrant wildflowers and grassy meadows, which seem to creep up on everything—houses, roads, even sheep fi elds and pigpens. It makes me want to breathe deeply, savor the clean air while I’m so far removed from Lundewic’s crowded streets and the grime of the previous tour stops. It’s…refreshing. Maybe it’s a good sign.

Since no one appears inclined to hurl tomatoes, I unlatch the window and lean out, letting the breeze ruffle my hair. Closing my eyes against the bright light, I revel in the warmth on my skin. Sure, my fair complexion will likely burn, but it’s worth it. A little sun is good for the soul, and right now, my soul needs all the light it can get.

“Ah, such a lovely tour of the backwater.” Jared’s voice cuts through my thoughts from the other side of the carriage, where he’s draped lazily across the seat, his inky eyes half-lidded with boredom. Lord Jared Gruffudd Mackenzie, eighth Duke of Glamorgan, and one of my oldest friends, rarely holds back his disdain. With his deep umber skin, handsome face, and vast estates that he rarely visits—preferring, as one does, the delights of the capital—Jared could boast he rivals me as the kingdom’s most eligible bachelor. But he doesn’t because he’s also quite humble, actually. It’s why we’re mates. Except right now he’s prickly.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he continues. “Do you really have to carry on with this charade of marrying some Alarician bumpkin?”

“Don’t be a dick,” I reply, shooting him a look.

“Aw, fuck off,” he retorts, smirking. He always reminds me of a sleek cat—his tendency to melt into seats, like a barn cat on a bale of hay in the sun. He’s mostly bored and indifferent, too.

“This whole ruse is ridiculous. Why would a prince search for a bride here,” he gestures vaguely out the window, “when you could have your pick of all the ladies at your grandfather’s court? Here, she’s sure to have four hooves,” he adds, shaking his head.

I wave at more villagers, keeping the smile plastered to my face. “According to my mother, apparently my philandering reputation precedes me. So the only Alarician noblewomen who’ll have me are the social climbers. And besides, I’m not doing this to actually get married, remember? No one’s suspected our true mission yet.” I elbow him. “But hey, maybe one of these ‘Alarician bumpkins’ will catch your eye, my friend. And maybe Marcus’s, too!”

Jared’s laugh fills the carriage. The idea of any of us marrying someone from one of these towns is clearly absurd to him. He’s far too busy working his way through the kingdom’s married countesses to consider settling down. So many bored, beautiful, married countesses whose husbands are off preparing for or hiding from the impending war effort.

“There’s nothing here,” he says, gesturing lazily out the window once more. “Fields, fields, and…look, more fields! And so many sheep!”

“Baaaa,” I bleat, settling back into my cushioned seat as the carriage rattles onward.

But Jared’s in a mood and makes no effort to hide it. “We should just ask around for the information you need and drop all this subterfuge.”

“Our official mission is not only to find Loegria’s next queen, but also to win the people over and garner the goodwill of my future subjects. And hell, maybe I really will meet someone.”

He replies with a grunt.

I give him a playful slap on his chest. “Where’s your sense of adventure? A little optimism won’t kill you.” My attention shifts to a small boy with a runny nose staring open-mouthed at the carriage. I wave at him and then at his squinting grandfather. “Good day, sir!” I call out.

Jared scoffs and rubs at his days-old beard. “My sense of adventure involves hot baths, fi ne wine, and the company of someone who hasn’t lost their mind,” he retorts. “The sooner we’re back at court in Lundenwic, the better.”

I don’t bother arguing. We both know we’re not going back anytime soon.

Offi cially, my mission is to strengthen ties between Loegria and Alarice, much like my parents did with their Wedding March years ago. Their marriage is a success on paper even if it is catastrophic in reality.

My parents despise each other. They’ve spent just enough time together to produce me and my sister.

But whatever my personal reservations about the institution of marriage, as the heir to both kingdoms, my duty is clear: wed an Alarician girl, fulfill the terms of the treaty, and unite our lands in common defense. My grandfather, King Elgar of Alarice, named me his heir, upsetting the line of succession for the sake of unity against the growing threat of Penrith—and of the mysterious power stirring in the Great Waste. Elgar’s banished brother, Namreth, was supposed to inherit the crown over my mother’s line, but no more. In due time, I’ll produce some heirs of my own with a nice Alarician girl, and the two kingdoms will become one under my rule.

Of course, my mother wasn’t thrilled about me leaving the capital with rumors of war swirling. My father practically forbade it.

Practically.

After Father stormed out of the room, Mother lectured me on how tales of my reputation as a lush and a player had reached King Elgar’s court in the capital and ruined any prospect of a suitable match there. I posited that news of my exploits probably hadn’t spread to the far ends of Alarice. I told her that my best hope of finding a wife was to fish from a new pond.

That did the trick, and she agreed I should go on this tour to find a wife expediently and unite the kingdoms before the Usurper of Penrith makes good on the looming threat of war. As long as my bride is from Alarice, the treaty doesn’t care whether she’s of noble blood.

That’s not the real reason I’m here, though. Unofficially, my mission is much more than just bride-shopping.

Crown Prince is a role I play, like my father’s jester performing before the court, and this search for a bride is nothing but a convenient cover for my real reason for being here. I have no true intention of marrying anyone—from this village or anywhere else—before that mission is accomplished. Treaty or not, marriage will have to wait.

Not that I mind putting it off. Marriage only breeds resentment, bickering, and unhappiness, as my parents have demonstrated throughout my life. It’s the perfect way to make two people hate each other. Why would I subject myself to that any earlier than I absolutely have to? My life is already a tragedy—I don’t need to add a loveless union to my burdens.

At last, the carriage lurches to a stop in Evandale’s town square. Before

I can gather my thoughts, Marcus, my ever-loyal general, throws the door open. Taller and broader than me, with tawny skin, a neatly trimmed beard, and a perpetually grim expression, he radiates competence and wariness. Marcus doesn’t trust anyone and doesn’t try to hide that fact. Subtlety has never been his strong suit. He’s always ready for a conflict, a threat, a revolution, an assassination. He’d gladly skewer anyone who even looks at me the wrong way.

“Your Highness,” he says, as I step out into the sunlight. I take in the square, trying to suppress my skepticism. We’re in an open area surrounded by a horseshoe of two-story wooden buildings. It’s… quaint. Kind of nice, maybe? And busy. We’re surrounded by a flurry of activity. Boxes of apples, potatoes, and onions are stacked like pillars, and a humongous pile of logs in the middle is waiting to be set on fire, ready to cook up a large roast. A mound of freshly picked pumpkins stands by a wooden stage, where a great banner proclaims the coming harvest festival. Clearly, we are just in time for a party.

Marcus has already been here for a day, arranging accommodations for our retinue. His sharp gaze sweeps the gathered crowd, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t look thrilled, but Marcus never looks thrilled.

“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” I say lightly, though I know better than to expect enthusiasm from him. Marcus is an excellent general but an absolute killjoy. The latter might be an occupational hazard of the former.

I stretch my legs as I step away from the carriage. It’s a relief to escape Jared’s constant complaints, even though I, too, long for my suite in the palace after the week we’ve had. I stifle a sigh and try not to stare at the locals, to search for a particular face that calls to me. I’m not sure who I’m looking for, exactly, but I hope I’ll know when I see her. But none of the faces staring back at me are the one.

Might as well get on with it. I raise my voice so it carries over their murmurs. “We’re here to find my princess!” I declare with a grin, eliciting a mix of giggles and gasps from the townsfolk. Marcus and Jared’s faces don’t give anything away, but I can imagine their thoughts: Here we go again with the bullshit.

I press on, waving to a group of young women who blush and hide their smiles behind their hands. The townsfolk gather around us, curious but cautious.

Faces peer from windows, and a few young women linger conspicuously

near the well. An older man with thinning hair and an obsequious air emerges on the steps of the town hall and scuttles toward me. Given his rich attire, he is clearly nobility. He is alight with the kind of false enthusiasm that makes my skin crawl. He grabs my hand and kisses it with lips that are far too wet. I suppress a shudder.

Even at twenty-two, I hear my mother’s voice in my head reminding me of my lessons in etiquette and her stern warnings to never offend the nobility, whose support we need to hold the kingdom together. I force myself to smile.

“Your Highness,” the man croaks. “I am Lord Breadalbane, Marquis of Evandale. Your visit honors our humble town. I only received word of your arrival yesterday, or I would have prepared a proper welcome. We are a modest village, but if you have any requests, I will make sure our people do all we can to fulfill them.”

I fight the urge to pull my hand away. “Thank you, Lord Breadalbane. But the pleasure is all mine.”

What an ass.

Surely, Evandale deserves better leadership than this. The townspeople look like the practical, hardworking sort, and this oily backwater aristocrat wouldn’t appear to know a hard day’s work if it smacked him across the face.

Still, I must play the part, so I let the marquis escort me into the town hall. It’s the grandest building in town, with polished wood floors and hand-painted walls accented with gold foil, mimicking the fields of wheat outdoors. Waiting for us are a handful of local dignitaries standing alongside my councilors. The formality of this bride search is not my style at all.

I gesture to my party. “May I introduce the Duke of Glamorgan…”

Jared makes an exaggerated bow.

“And you’ve already met General Marcellus, Earl of Coventry…”

Marcus tucks his hat under his arm, his grim demeanor softening just enough to make him look his age, only a few years older than me.

Jared, Marcus, and I go way back to our school days. Before we were handed responsibilities and tasted battle, we raised more than our fair share of hell.

“They are my dear friends and councilors, whose advice has been invaluable as I search for my wife. Imagine—the future queen, born right here in this very town.” I stretch my arms wide and grin at the patriotic

pride swelling in the room. The royal entourage nods confidently, and I add, “I have a good feeling about Evandale. My future is here!” I’ve said as much at every town on the route, and every town falls for it.

“Of course, it is a great honor,” the marquis replies. He’s far older than my father, with a toad-like, grating presence. It’s painfully obvious he’s foaming at the mouth to marry one of his clan to me, desperate to advance his family’s standing. He leads us to a large banquet table festooned with wreaths and fruit.

“I hope you didn’t encounter any trouble on your travels,” the marquis says as stewards bring out platters of buns slathered with caramelized onions, roast boar, goat cheese with jam, and colorful root vegetables. Peasant food, sure, but this looks divine, and my mouth waters.

“No trouble,” I reply reassuringly. “I doubt Penrith would openly attack my caravan. Even if the rumors are true, they’re not ready for a war just yet.”

Everyone in the room knows the truth: Penrith’s forces are testing the borders of Loegria and Alarice. Their army is not exactly subtle.

The marquis sniffs. “Of course not. They’re surely no match for King Donnel and his Rings of Fate.”

My stomach lurches, but I keep my face neutral, plucking a fresh bun from the table and taking a large bite.

The Rings of Fate are more than just heirlooms; they’re powerful weapons from the Second Epoch of ancient Albion. My grandfather gave them to my father as a dowry when my parents married. Meant to tie the two kingdoms’ mutual interests together, the silver ring symbolizes Loegria’s ores, the gold Alarice’s wheat fi elds. Two kingdoms bound forever, just like the elemental power of the Whisting held inside the interlocking rings.

The Whisting is an ancient magic of the earth—the ability to tame the elemental forces of the ancient wind spirits, the Anemoi. Its masters can level mountains, carve valleys, divert rivers, and forge lakes. At the dawn of time, the earliest kings and sorcerers used the Whisting to turn the deserted, mountainous landscape into a lush country where their people could prosper. The Whisting is the very breath of life. Alas, it can also take life away—if the rumors of a dark magic rising once again are true.

The Rings are our greatest defense against the Usurper.

“Of course, no one would dare challenge the might of the Whisting,” the marquis says.

His worshipful tone echoes with the hope that fills every Alarician face in the room, like my father will singlehandedly save them all from the Usurper’s wrath.

“The Rings aren’t the only reason we’re safe in this land,” I say, my tone clipped. It’s annoying how carelessly the marquis dismisses the bravery of our knights in front of all of Evandale. I’m traveling with a full squadron— plus, Marcus himself is a walking fortress.

The marquis purses his lips. “Perhaps it’s easy for the inheritor of such ancient power to speak so lightly, especially when darkness has not touched Lundenwic. The promise of such magic is the only thing keeping the Usurper and his dark creatures at bay.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of our kingdoms’ alliance,” I reply, plastering on a reassuring grin. “It’s time to fi nd my queen and fulfi ll the agreement with a wedding, sealing the alliance of Loegria and Alarice just as my father’s and mother’s marriage united our lands.”

That’s the cue the marquis is waiting for.

He claps his hands, and a door opens. A long line of girls rushes out, hands clasped tightly in front of them, eyes lowered. They wear ornate dresses that look as if they were ordered straight from the capital, all brocade and heavy velvet and fur. They all have the same coloring as the marquis, save for his white hair—the same ruddy cheeks, the same pointed nose, the same thin lips. If I were a betting man—and I am—I’d say they’re all his daughters and nieces. Possibly some granddaughters, too.

“Without further ado, Prince Dietan, may I introduce to you some of the finest ladies in the land: the ladies of House Breadalbane.”

Called it.

They line up against the wall, their heads bowed from the weight of their hair piled high on their heads, threaded with jewels and ornaments.

The one at the end can’t be older than fourteen. My practiced, perfect smile falters for just a moment. I blanch at the thought of the marquis offering up his own ward so young.

“Oh—meet them so soon? I’ve barely arrived,” I say, feigning surprise.

“We’ve not a moment to waste,” the marquis insists, his enthusiasm unwavering. “The harvest festival begins shortly, and we’ve arranged the festivities in your honor. It’s best to introduce you to our finest now, so you can decide who you’d like to get better acquainted with.”

I glance at Jared, silently begging for rescue, but his smirk only deepens.

Marcus remains stoic, offering no help, either. Great. I’m on my own.

Suppressing a sigh, I step up to the first girl in the line. She curtsies, offering me a demure smile as I kiss the back of her hand. “What a lovely gown,” I say, my voice steady, my expression polite. “And your hair—so beautiful.”

The platitudes flow effortlessly, practiced over countless encounters like this throughout my youth. I move to the next girl, repeating the process. My smile remains firmly in place, and Jared’s smirk and Marcus’s stern expression ensure that no one can guess the truth: this entire tour is a farce. Even if I wanted to marry, no woman in Albion would have me once she learns the truth about me on our wedding night. I carry a dangerous secret that my two closest friends, my father, and I have conspired to keep from the rest of the world—and especially from my mother—for half my life. My father distrusts her still, and our kingdom would be imperiled if I were exposed.

By the time I reach the end of the line of Breadalbane women, I’m struggling to maintain my composure. The youngest girl, the fourteen-yearold, curtsies, and I keep our interaction brief, offering her nothing more than a polite nod. The marquis is beyond disgusting.

“What a warm welcome!” I declare, turning back to the sorry excuse for a man with a broad smile to hide my irritation. “But I must admit, I’m utterly exhausted. I would be eternally grateful if you could show me to our lodgings.”

Marcus steps forward, taking over the conversation with his usual efficiency. “This way, sire,” he says, gesturing toward the door.

I follow him out of the town hall as quickly as I can without sprinting, trying not to step on his heels. My retinue forms a protective barrier around me as we cross the square, intent on shielding me from the curious stares of the townsfolk, but I motion for them to stand down. Let the people look for a few moments more; that’s why I’m here. Faces peer out from windows, and a few onlookers crane their necks, eager to catch a glimpse of the visiting prince, soon to be their prince. I keep my head up, face forward. I’m tired. I want this to be clean, simple, and quick.

The inn—a two-story building on the edge of the square—isn’t much, but it’ll do. Right now, my only concern is getting to my suite, away from the prying eyes of the village. Once safely indoors, I’ll be free to focus on what really matters.

I didn’t come here to find a bride. I came here to find a mage. Her last known whereabouts were reportedly near this town. She’s the only one who might be able to help me—not just for my sake but for all of Albion.

For the Rings of Fate are not resting safely behind glass in my father’s war room. Gods no. They’re buried under my shoulder blades, fused to bone and blood.

My life depends on getting them out of me. And so does the fate of the world.