Page 73 of Heir to His Court

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But none of them is willing to take the risk.”

I wasn't sure I blamed them. I was on my own dealing with the Prince of Everenne.

Whatever he was doing with the shadows, I couldn't see him, I couldn't feel his precise location. His voice surrounded me, and I wasn't about to die like a mouse caught in a trap.

As soon as that thought came to me, vision asserted itself and I could see again though it was not the palace bedroom I beheld.

Sun burned down on my skin, sand scorched the soles of my feat. Waves beat against the shore in an ominous drumbeat.

“Why did you bring me here?” I asked, grimly observing the battle-scarred skeleton of the forested island I'd spent a large part of my childhood on, even if it had only been on a dream plane.

The beach was littered with bodies, ruins of ships bobbing in the ocean a mile out. Survivors staggered amongst the fallen, some rendering aid, others rendering mercy. Or death, depending on the side of the fallen.

I turned slowly, and the freshly toppled tower of the domed castle whose shattered walls I’d roved, sat smoking. I stared up the cliffside, wondering if the civilians who supported the castle had fled to the forests. They would have had warning, unless someone cloaked the ships.

I was their unordained priestess. These civilians were mine, in a way not even the Faronnesse were mine, the weight of the responsibility keen. More memory unraveled, teased, and I stuffed it back down to avoid overwhelm. Nayya had done me no favors.

Turning back to the ocean, I studied the ships. At least one had sails still intact. A blue, purple, and gray banner with a stylized storm over a field of purple poppies fluttered.

Assariel and Nayya’s banner.

I closed my eyes, orienting myself, and opened them again, unsurprised when Raniel stood at the line of sand where the shore met water. He looked over my shoulder, and I pivoted, following his gaze.

Down the cliff a line of warriors marched a female in blue and gold armor, her long dark hair woven with stark strands of purple, gold beads tipping the interspersed braids and matching beads at her pointed ears.

Leading was a tall male in silver armor, his helm obscuring his identity, a stupid cloak at his shoulders. This was a beach in spring. He didn’t need the protection of heavy, ornate fabric. Especially not over armor. He must be slow roasting.

Behind the purple haired female was a familiar feminine form. Medium height, dressed in black leathers, her dark brown hair cut below her shoulder blades. She held the hand of a small boy staring at the captured female, his narrow shoulders hunched.

A pale face, with short, messily cut hair. He wore his clothing like any little boy would, without a single care as to its state of cleanliness or condition. But I doubted a long day at play was what had stained and torn his clothing. His small hand clenched and unclenched, as if he was seeking a blade.

I understood.

He reached out to the purple haired woman, but Nayya restrained him. When the procession reached the bottom of the cliff and began crossing the sands, the little boy looked up. I recognized his face, as I recognized Nayya’s. The female in front of them had her younger brother's face. The child Raniel’s face.

Her name swam to my mind.

Ayyarah.

Grief choked my throat.

Ayyarah.

I inhaled, sharp pain in my chest. No. Please. Mother—

A hand fell on my shoulder. I glanced up through burning eyes, but Raniel watched the procession. The male in silver armor halted, holding up a hand, and turned. The warriors with them spread out in a half circle.

“You are my daughter,” he said through his helm, “and though you are also a traitor, you have fought well. You may choose the manner of your death.”

Why, Renaud? Why would you bring me to see this?Renaud and Raniel must have merged. Neither answered.

Ayyarah stared at the little boy. “You would kill me in front of my son?”

“He is not your son,” Nayya said, pain in her eyes as she stared at her daughter. “He is mine, and you stole him from me when he was barely out of the womb. You’ve had your revenge, daughter, and the pain you inflicted was bitter. But vengeance always comes with a price, especially for the victorious.”

Nayya lowered her head, and I saw the struggle on her face. The struggle to justify mercy, when there was no justification. Ayyarah had rebelled against her parents, stolen their child, launched a war on their territories. They could not show her mercy.

“I will do it,” Nayya said, releasing the boy’s hand and reaching out to her husband. “Assariel.”

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