He was just a man, she reminded herself. A man not quite so bulky as he first appeared, but all the more menacing due to the perfectly fitted black armor that made it seem he was cloaked in night itself. That and his sheer force of presence were what troubled her, along with the fact that she couldn’t see his face, let alone his eyes, due to a hood that covered his entire head.
As if he felt her incredulous stare from where he stood—slightly to the left and perhaps three steps behind the prince—his head lifted enough that she should have been able to tell what he looked like… if only his face had been visible. Instead, he wore a mask composed of the same dark metal as his armor, with only two narrow slits that permitted him to see.
And if that weren’t terrifying enough, directly in front of him, the apparition’s gauntleted hands rested on the hilt of an enormous sword that balanced, point down, on the shining marble floor.
Leisa had never seen a sword like that before. It was far too big and too heavy to wield in battle, with a blade at least a hands-width at the base, and long enough it would probably be chest high on her. It was a weapon meant for only one thing—to remind those around it of the implacable, inescapable nature of death.
And it could belong to only one man—the King’s Raven. This was obviously the one she’d been warned about, a combination of faceless warrior and nameless assassin.
King Soren had spoken of his brutality and the impossible tasks he’d undertaken for his king. No one had ever beaten him, no quarry ever escaped. His legend, according to Soren, was the linchpin on which Garimore’s quest for power turned.
While comfortably ensconced in Princess Evaraine’s suites back in Farhall, Leisa had dismissed such stories as mere embellishment. This Raven was, after all, just a man. Perhaps no more than a large man in armor carrying a blunt weapon, wearing a mask to make himself appear more mysterious. Tell enough stories, and anyone could appear threatening.
But now?
She swallowed convulsively and concluded that perhaps notallof the rumors were unfounded.
Prince Vaniell saw her staring, turned his head, and made a small sound of disgust.
“If you’re going to make your little pet lurk, Father,” he said with a sneer, “please have him do so somewhere more befitting his gloomy affectations. All that black makes me feel positively funereal, and you know how I hate anything depressing. Besides,”—and here he threw Leisa a dazzling smile—“unless you’re planning to execute someone in the front entry, he really doesn’t match the decor.”
So apparently, the king’s pet assassin didn’t intimidateeveryone.
Leisa glanced his way again, wondering whether the assassin might decide to be offended simply by her scrutiny, but it quickly became clear his attention was elsewhere.
Faster than thought, before she could draw a single breath, that enormous sword moved, seemingly without effort, flashing from hand to gauntleted hand in a whirling arc that ended with the point of the blade resting in the center of the prince’s cravat.
With a soundless slither, the silken cravat separated and fell from the prince’s neck.
One of the nearby officials let out a high pitched scream of terror and crashed to the marble floor in a dead faint.
And Prince Vaniell—the vain, party-loving playboy—never so much as flinched.
How very interesting.
Unless Leisa was very much mistaken, curtsies had officially become the very least of her worries.
Chapter 3
The princess was watching him.
And beneath the strange weight of her gaze, the Raven could tell at once that she was not what he expected. Not what anyone expected.
In size and shape, she was still the slender, colorless creature that gazed lifelessly out of the portrait in the prince’s quarters. Still the mousy, unassuming woman the king had demanded his son woo and marry.
Her appearance lied.
But then, so did his. The point, he supposed, of all that armor. They hadn’t needed so much metal to chain him, but it served its purpose. To terrify and intimidate.
Just as the princess’s outer “armor” served to make her appear fragile and harmless.
He would have wagered there was nothing fragile or harmless about her, but there was no one to wager with. And in any case, he had no plans to share his observations. No one cared what he saw or what he thought. He was mute judgment made flesh, and he did only what his master commanded.
His master, who seemed to have forgotten that beneath the armor of his bodyguard lay the heart and mind of a living, breathing creature. To Melger, the Raven was no more than a thing—a tool to be used and not regarded unless it broke.
And he would not, could not break. After ten years beneath the weight of these chains forged by magic and steel, his life had been reduced to a single quest.
Revenge.