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  His caresses ceased as he pulled her arm. Myah yielded to his lead and drew closer to him. He cupped her cheek with his right hand and stroked his thumb across the planes of her face. Her eyes drifted closed as she savored the sensation of his skin upon hers.

  “Myah,” he started, his voice soft, gentle, filled with all the love she had seen in his eyes. “Tell me what happened in the hall, when the Ostens arrived.”

  His words were like icy water showering her. She pulled away from his touch; her eyes flashed open.

  “He …” she started, then paused. She had been waiting all day to speak to him, but now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to say anything to Skye. He would overreact and do something stupid to protect her. “It was nothing. I tripped on the step.”

  She stood and wandered the secluded garden, her eyes lifted to the fractured moon, her fingers brushing the rough needles of the evergreens.

  “My,” he called. She could hear his footfalls behind her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him. “I saw what happened. You didn’t just trip. You were … afraid.”

  Myah sucked in a long, shaky breath, and looked at her friend, his face all shadows of milky white in the moonlight. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Handle what?” Skye demanded.

  Myah let the silence fall between them.

  “Handle what?” he repeated, gentler this time.

  She sighed. “The guardsman.”

  “The scarred one?”

  She dropped her chin.

  “He’s the one from the woods, isn’t he? The one who almost killed you.” Skye’s dark eyes flashed with anger. The muscle in his jaw ticked.

  She really did not want to answer him.

  “Myah!” he demanded. His hands came up, gripping her upper arms.

  The action startled her. For a moment, she was back in the woods with Master Garrett, when he hauled her up in the creek bed. Her heart thrumming, fear lancing any rational thought. Then, she was back in the gardens, alone with Skye. Would she ever escape those nightmarish memories?

  “Yes, all right,” she said derisively, pulling away from him, backing away as if he were her enemy instead of Garrett. “But, as I said, I’ll handle it. I’ll figure it out.”

  “And how are you going to handle it?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Her words fell in a rush. “But I will think of something.”

  Skye laughed, the sound mocking. He tore his hand through his hair, pausing only to tug on the ends before he released it. Curses, ones she had only ever heard Cal use, ushered past his lips.

  “What is wrong with you?” Myah demanded. “I’m not an idiot. His presence means trouble, and if it were as simple as slipping into Ost for supplies, I would follow your lead. But this … this is diplomatic. If you do anything, here, in Nordlin, it can cause a lot more trouble for us than my uncle finding out we’ve been raiding supplies from the Osten army.”

  “Fine,” he said tersely, “but you need to do it quickly, or Cal and I will.”

  Her anger sparked like fire within her. “I’ve always trusted you and Cal, so you need to trust me with this, Skye.”

  “I do trust you, but I can’t leave until—”

  “Until what?” Myah demanded.

  “Until I know you are safe. His presence here is far worse than just having some Ostens milling about!”

  There were so many words on the tip of her tongue. Anger-filled sentiments that would serve no purpose than to hurt her friend. She worked her jaw, chewing on them, weighing the worth of saying them. “I think perhaps you should say goodnight now,” she chose instead.

  He stared at her hard and then finally said, “Goodnight.” It wasn’t until his footfalls fell silent that her body relaxed.

  Myah needed a plan to deal with this Garrett before Skye made a mess of things. He was not rational when it came to Myah’s safety; he had proven that in Oasisian.

  ~*~

  Garrett sat up on the cold bench, took a deep breath, and then let it ghost out into the frigid Nordlin night. He had his work cut out for him—if the conversation he had just overheard was any indication. He knew getting Myah to trust him wouldn’t be easy; he knew it the moment he had decided to come to Nordlin. But, he terrified her, and he would never get close enough to learn if he was right about her if he couldn’t put her at ease. He also needed a way to test his theory without raising suspicions.

  He flipped through his memories of his years in Oasisian, his service as a child in the Royal Guard. His time with Oren. What words could he say to put her at ease?

  None came to mind, but although he did not have words, he knew the answer.

  And it lay close to his heart.

  ~EIGHTEEN~

  You will apologize at once!” Caitlyn’s shrill voice followed Myah into her rooms. Myah didn’t need to look back to know that her mother’s pale skin was as crimson as a sunset.

  Myah waited until she heard her door slam shut before she spun around to face her mother. “I will not!” She pulled off her gloves and tossed them on her side table.

  “You threw a chalice of water in his face!”

  “He’s lucky I didn’t stab him with a table knife.” She lifted her chin and stared down her nose at her mother. For two days, she had tolerated Lord Phillip. His condescension, his inappropriate comments, his decided lack of manners. She had endured it with decorum, for the sake of whatever sort of peace her uncle was trying to construct with the Ostens and Queen Elysia. But this morning had been the last straw. No one could be expected to have patience in the face of that arrogant cad. “He put his hand on my thigh,” she gritted out. “And … slid … his hand … up.”

  “Then you ask him to remove it. You don’t assault him!”

  “Assault him?”

  “Yes, assault him. You accosted and embarrassed him in front of half the court!”

  Myah closed the gap between her and her mother. “He put his hand on me, without my consent, and when I told him to remove it, he laughed. As though it were a joke.”

  “That is still not the way you handle the situation,” Caitlyn countered. “You didn’t see me throwing a tantrum when he touched my leg the other night.”

  “Oh, and how would you have me handle it? Pretend nothing happened? I don’t care who he is. Maybe next time he’ll think twice.”

  Caitlyn folded her hands together. “I’ll tell you how you don’t handle it, Myah. By making a scene. You handle it with dignity and pride, and discreetly.”

  Myah crossed her arms. “I understand diplomacy. Truly, I do, but there are some things no one should tolerate. And I will not lower myself or be debased for the sake of a treaty or appearance or your delicate sensibilities.”

  “I hope that someday you don’t have to learn the hard way why I caution you. We are women. We walk a fine line, even when we are allowed to hold positions of power, be heirs to our houses, have a say in the outcome of our lives. Sometimes power isn’t enough to protect us.”

  The conversation with her uncle flashed through her mind. However, Caitlyn’s fears were not Myah’s fears, and even if they were, she could not imagine not saying exactly what she thought on the subject. “Pretending his behavior is acceptable just encourages further abuse.”

  “We will have to agree to disagree,” Caitlyn said imperiously. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “You can agree to disagree, Mother, but wrong is wrong. And he was wrong. And I will never say differently.” She turned from her mother and disappeared behind her dressing screen. She began to undress, pulling her dress over her head before tossing it over the top of the screen.

  “What are you doing?”

  Myah grabbed her riding pants and pulled them on. “Changing.”

  “But you have lessons with Master Griffith, and your uncle invited Lord Phillip to play cards with us after tea.”

  She stuck her head out from behind the screen. “I’m sure Uncle Edgar will understand my absence, because if you i
nsist on me attending, I assure you, I will use Lord Phillip as a pincushion.” Myah may not be able to use a knife to fight, but the concepts of stabbing someone were universal, particularly if the intended target was caught off guard. She would pin his hand to the table if he touched her again.

  She disappeared back behind the screen and pulled her shirt on over her corset. Still tucking in the fabric to her pants, she emerged.

  “You’re being exasperating.”

  She smiled. “I learned it from my beautiful mother.”

  Caitlyn’s thin eyebrows arched upward. “Hardly.” She jutted a finger in Myah’s direction. “I expect to see you at the evening meal. There will be dancing this evening.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

  Caitlyn muttered as she turned to the door. Myah couldn’t quite hear her, but she was certain it was something along the lines of cursing her with children like her someday. When she left, Myah grabbed her archery equipment and cloak.

  ~*~

  Myah’s hope for a peaceful afternoon was ill-met. When she reached the practice fields where her archery targets were set up, she groaned. A dozen Ostens practiced in the center of the space. She paused on the stone steps that led down from the outer gardens to the terraced levels of the hillside and watched.

  While most of the Ostens engaged in one-to-one combat, the motion of four coordinated attacks on one person caught her attention. His movements were swift and precise, a tornado of spins and blades. He tucked the double swords to his chest, dropped into a crouch, and then flipped to the right. When he landed, the blades immediately arced outward. Had the weapons been more than practice swords, he would have sliced two of his opponents, each on opposite sides, in half. The two men dropped from the blows, as the other two moved in. He blocked one, advanced on the second with clean strikes to the other’s sword. Next, he spun, bringing the first weapon toward the unguarded side, while the second weapon defended the assault from behind him. The blades moved about him as if they were an extension of his body in smooth, precise movements. The defending soldier landed a kick to the chest through the first man’s defenses, knocking him back to the frozen ground, and within moments, the tip of his practice sword nestled against the other man’s jaw—a death blow if the battle had been real.

  The man yielded, and the soldier lowered his weapon. He extended a hand to one of the men still lulling on the ground, helping him to his feet. He clapped him on the back in a gesture of goodwill.

  It wasn’t until he turned around that Myah realized who the four soldiers had been fighting. Garrett, the master of the Elite Guard. Her spine stiffened.

  Murderer of thousands.

  Snow flurries fluttered around them, yet he stood in only a pair of pants and boots, shirtless. The discoloration of his scars covered half of his muscular chest and wrapped around to his back. They crept up his left shoulder, to his throat—as she had seen before—and created a garish red sleeve on his left arm, continuing to the tips of his scarred hand.

  Burns. He was covered in scars that could have only been made by fire.

  How horrific, she thought. Followed quickly by, how was he not freezing out here?

  Who practiced shirtless in the snow?

  Myah took the last four steps to the field and skirted the edges of the grounds to where her archery targets were set up. She wasn’t the only one to use them, but the Nordlin guards knew how particular she was about her practice, and kept them well-maintained for her.

  Myah stopped about a hundred paces from her first set of targets and threw off her cloak. The wind was biting, but manageable. She nocked an arrow and lifted her arms. Her new bow was larger than the one she had lost in the woods at Oasisian, and it felt foreign in her hands. She shook off the strange feeling and set it so that the feathers tickled the edge of her cheek. Myah drew back her arm, and at the same time, she took a breath. One heartbeat later, she let the arrow fly. The wind chose that moment to stop entirely, making her compensation of currents irrelevant. It struck the outer edge of her target circle.

  She frowned. Her aim was better than that.

  Myah grabbed a second arrow and tried again. As she released the projectile, the wind swirled around her, kicking up stray leaves and frozen grass. This time, it embedded on the opposite side of the target. She had not compensated for the wind that time. Its erratic gusts were becoming maddening.

  A third arrow, then, she determined and lined up the target. Deep breath in—

  “Your elbowing is too high.”

  She exhaled the breath in a gasp of air and dropped her arm. She spun in the direction of the voice, glaring. “My elbow—” Her mouth closed tightly.

  Garrett.

  “Is too high,” he finished for her. “You’re also not compensating properly for the wind.”

  “I know how to shoot, thank you. I’ve been shooting since I was a child. Both standing, and while in movement.”

  “Well, your teacher apparently forgot to tell you to keep your elbow down.”

  “I don’t recall asking your opinion.”

  He shrugged. “Fair enough.” He started to turn away but stopped. His fire-like eyes found her over his shoulder. “That shield thing you tried in the woods … you can use it to protect your arrows so you won’t have to compensate for the wind. Might be useful with the weather today.”

  Myah opened her mouth to speak, then closed it quickly, gaping like a fish out of water. Who did he think he was, giving her advice? What did it matter that he was … right? “I,” she started. “That’s too complex without a weaver stone. I … I don’t have one.”

  He angled his body back toward her. His hand jutted into the pocket of his leather pants, withdrawing something. Myah couldn’t tell what. He curled his fingers around it, hesitated as if he thought better of whatever he had drawn out, and then tossed it to her.

  “You do now … but it won’t help with that elbow.”

  He returned to the Osten guards, picked up his practice swords, and called them all into a formation around him. She watched as they started another round of sparring. This time with three attacking him at once.

  Myah bent down to pick up what he tossed—a round, pink stone set in silver.

  A weaver stone.

  She rolled it in her fingers and then cut a sharp look at Garrett.

  Why would he have a weaver stone?

  And why would he give it to her?

  ~*~

  The wind picked up, stirring the flurries into little spirals of white. Skye pulled his cloak tighter around him as he watched Myah on the practice field from the outer garden wall. Anger, raw and fierce, burned within him. Talking to the Osten, he thought, was that how she planned to handle the situation? It had been two days, and still, Myah had done nothing.

  Garrett was still a threat.

  Skye’s patience wore thin.

  “You don’t really think they’re here on some mission of peace, right?” Cal asked. He sat on the garden wall overlooking the fields, his legs dangling over the edge.

  “Nope,” Skye responded.

  “And you saw Myah’s reaction to him when they arrived, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s the one who tried to kill her.”

  Skye nodded.

  Cal cursed in his native tongue. “So, are we going to let him get away with hurting our girl?”

  “Not a chance,” Skye said evenly.

  Cal spun, kicking his legs over the stone wall, and stood. He slapped Skye on the shoulder, drawing his attention from the field to his friend’s face. A hint of a smile twisted the corner of Cal’s mouth. “Good, because I have an idea.”

  “Is it going to get us killed?”

  “Possibly,” Cal hedged. “No promises. He’s laying waste to those guards; he might not be human.”

  Skye could agree with the inhuman part. A man would have to be soulless to do the things the Osten Elite Guard had done, and Garrett commanded them, but no one was invincible.
And Skye had seen that style of fighting before while at court when he was a boy. The Esparrow Royal Guard used it, and they never taught the techniques to anyone outside their ranks. However, the Royal Guard died when Oasisian fell, meaning the Ostens had found a weakness.

  Which also meant Garrett had one.

  He would end that Osten animal—for Myah’s sake. She would be safer with him gone, as would the rest of the four kingdoms.

  Skye looked toward the men practicing on the field, and then back at Cal. “What do you have in mind?”

  ~NINETEEN~

  Myah scurried down the corridor, trying to keep her footsteps light. A sense of unease gnarled at her insides. After that morning’s incident with Lord Phillip, the last place Myah wanted to be was within a two-kingdom radius of the lord. Yet, after the argument with her mother, she didn’t feel right about avoiding the evening meal. However, if Caitlyn pressed her to apologize again … well, she wouldn’t. Ever. Not in a thousand lifetimes.

  She rounded into the next hallway, and stopped in her tracks. Lord Phillip stood outside the doors. His back pressed against the wall, his arms crossed, as if he were leisurely waiting for someone. She bristled. She hoped he wasn’t waiting for her.

  Myah closed her eyes, took a deep breath, grabbed the fabric of her sage skirt, and pressed on. Nose firmly in the air, she marched for the doors, passing him as if she hadn’t noticed him at all.

  “Lady Myah.” Phillip’s voice gave her pause, and she turned her head enough to look over her shoulder at him. “May I escort you in?”

  She gritted her teeth but forced a smile. “Of course, Lord Ashen.”

  “Please, call me Phillip.”

  She would call him something, but it wouldn’t be Phillip. “It’s a bit familiar, and we are not that well acquainted.”