Page 1 of The Uncrowned Prince

PROLOGUE

It was well past midnight, but King Trevelian of Iria was still awake, his ambassador’s hastily scribbled report clenched in nerveless fingers.

His queen stared at him from across their bedchamber, dark eyes wide with fear. “Is he certain?”

“He took the long way home from Garimore because he feared the ferries were being watched,” the king responded wearily. “Why would Nerrol go to such lengths if he were not certain?”

“But what of those messages Melger sent over the winter? Why would he warn us of Allera’s intentions to invade if his true purpose is to conquer us one by one?”

To sow division between the other four Thrones. To set them at one another’s throats while Melger laid his plans.

“I’ve heard from Allera,” Trevelian reminded his wife. The Queen of Eddris had received messages, too, cautioning her to beware of Irian treachery. Despite everything, he trusted Allera, in ways he had never trusted Melger. “Eddris has no designs on our territory.”

“You believe her?”

“Yes.”

“Then… What can we do? How can we prepare?”

The answer was simple—they could not. If Nerrol’s report was accurate, and the Zulleri Empire decided to claim these lands, there was little anyone could do to stop it. And if Melger was truly Second Blade…

There might be no stopping him, either.

A knocking sounded from the outer chamber. Trevelian heard the murmur of low voices as the page answered it, then a soft rap on the bedchamber door.

Yet another catastrophe that could not wait for morning.

Tightening the belt on his dressing gown, he clenched his jaw, crossed to the door and opened it.

He never even saw the blade. His queen had barely drawn a horrified breath before an identical dagger found her heart, and she fell, hand stretched towards her husband where he lay in a widening pool of blood.

By the time a guard discovered the open door, the slain page, and the remnants of the ambassador’s report smoldering in the fireplace, the assassin was long gone, leaving only his daggers behind.

* * *

Queen Allera of Eddris turned her face to the fitful spring sun and shivered as she drew her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. The breeze was cool this morning, but she hadn’t missed a market day in twelve years and didn’t intend to start now.

Just behind her right shoulder, Valeric led his horse in her wake, assessing their surroundings with a deceptively casual expression while she nodded and smiled and waved at the tradespeople she knew.

He’d been worried lately—constantly reminding her to eat and sleep—and while she wished she could reassure him, there seemed no end to the matters that demanded her attention.

At least the situation in Farhall had finally resolved itself. Allera had mourned for Soren—as a friend and as a fellow sovereign—but she also had high hopes for Evaraine. The new queen showed every sign of being a strong, confident leader—exactly what Farhall needed in these times of uncertainty and upheaval.

And despite her initial misgivings, Princess Caro had provided a startlingly positive report on Danric. Given his experience with governance and his intimate knowledge of the enemy, the new King of Farhall now seemed more likely to be an asset than a liability—a sorely needed bit of good news amidst the bad.

Or perhaps the news was more perplexing than bad. Allera’s scouts had reported skirmishes with the Garimoran troops hidden in the southern forests, but they always withdrew before full engagement. They seemed to be waiting for something—a signal, perhaps—but their true purpose eluded her. It was too small a force for an invasion, and their location was too remote to pose an immediate danger to Eddrisian citizens.

A man stepped into the street in front of her—a tradesman of some sort, judging by his apron. He spared no glance for either of her two guards, and Allera was glad to see it. The pair was intended for crowd control rather than intimidation, and neither held a drawn weapon, though the watch-wolves that paced by their sides probably qualified as weapon enough. Oakhaven had always been safe, its people content, and Allera very much hoped they would remain so—free of worry, free of war.

One of the wolves snarled a warning, and Allera glanced up just as the man in the street removed his hand from his apron pocket and hurled a glowing, crackling ball of pure magic in her direction.

A chill swept over her at the sense of malice it exuded, and in its malevolent glow, Allera sensed both the capacity and intent to kill. And yet, her body stubbornly refused to react. She could only gaze wide-eyed and silent as it arrowed towards her, growing in size and brilliance as it approached.

But even as she remained mesmerized by the light, Allera heard a familiar, agonized cry.

Valeric. This would destroy him, she thought sadly. But he knew how much she loved him, and they’d had so many more happy years than she’d once dared to dream.

Her breath flew out of her with a grunt as his solid bulk hit hers, throwing her sideways, attempting to knock her out of the path of the assassin’s magic. But it was just a little too late. The crackling miasma of power struck them both as they fell, with Valeric’s arms around her holding her close. Just as he always had, he protected her with his very life. With every breath, every heartbeat, every waking moment.

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