2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

His Royal Highness, Prince Emory of Fontaine, looked up from the manuscript he was studying, and pasted on an agreeable smile.

It was much harder than it should have been—Rory knew that, but the knowing did not make it any easier to accomplish the pleasantries required when facing the Regent Queen, his aunt Sabrina. She did not bother him often, which he appreciated, as he always felt vaguely uncomfortable after her visits. Like her presence was a disagreeable reminder of everything she did that he did not.

She herself would never say anything of the kind. In fact, he was always grateful at how little pressure she put on him as the Crown Prince of the country of Fontaine. At his age, a deep, hidden voice inside told him, he should be sitting next to her at council meetings, and alongside her during the weekly audience with Fontaine's subjects. That ugly reminder that he wasn't doing enough—wasn't doing much of anything at all, except for studying his books and his languages and his ancient manuscripts—was always louder right after one of her visits.

Thankfully then, they did not occur very often.

Rory stood, and held out his hand. His aunt was still young and still stunningly beautiful, with lustrous dark hair and a pair of shining dark eyes that kindly turned down every proposal that was made to her, all under the auspices that she was far too occupied caring for her nephew's future throne and for the people of Fontaine.

She was beautiful and majestic, and therefore Rory could not fault her for being somewhat distant as well. After all, she was occupied with the business of the Crown, and he himself always seemed to be neck-deep in some important discussion or analysis or translation. Often, before he was even finished with one, another would appear, and so he passed his time as he had since he was in his early teens, in the library, situated in the tall round tower of Beaulieu.

"Your Highness," his aunt said respectfully, dipping into a graceful curtsy. After the formalities were observed, she took the chair opposite his, demurely folding her hands in her lap, even though in his personal experience, she was not exactly the demure type. She rode as well as any of their guards, and often took morning training in the yard with some of her most loyal attendants. Still, her act was excellent, and his was not—thus, another reason why neither of them had made any push to change the status quo since Rory had turned eighteen. Two years later, and there had still been zero discussion of transferring power; a situation Rory was perfectly fine with.

"What can I do for you?" Rory asked, that awkward feeling in his stomach intensifying. She never came to see him unless she needed something that only he could provide.

"You recall the terrible northern brigands who have been devastating our supply trains?" his aunt asked. Occasionally, she would provide a single parchment inscribed with some of the highlights of realm business. Rory usually read it, assuming that his aunt did not want him to be caught unawares at one of the few royal banquets he attended. The brigands looting the supply trains had been a large portion of the last installment. Rory nodded, even though he knew very little detail other than the basic facts of the case. It was not ancient, it was not in another language, and it was not a mystery to be unraveled. It needed a practical, experienced military hand to guide the problem to a solution, and therefore Rory had left it alone. He was neither particularly practical nor experienced in any military maneuvers except for archaic ones.

"We recently received intelligence that suggests they have retreated to the far north, right on the edge of our borders, to a valley lying between two mountain ranges."

Rory had no idea what this could possibly have to do with him. "Excellent," he said uselessly. This was why he never involved himself; his aunt was a paragon of efficiency.

"I would like you to travel with a squad of the guard to this valley and fetch them back to Beaulieu to see justice," the Regent Queen said primly, as if she was asking him for another translation of Gawain, and not to undertake a dangerous, active journey with the intent of capturing criminals.

Rory had very little experience concealing his feelings, even in the royal court, since he was called to participate in it so infrequently. He couldn't help his reaction; his jaw fell open. "You would like me to do what?" he asked slowly.

Occasionally, Rory wondered, since he had little occasion to witness it personally, how his aunt had achieved all that efficiency she was so famous for. He saw a little of it now, in the hardening of her jaw and the sudden ferocity flashing in her eyes. This was a woman, he realized suddenly and unexpectedly, whom you would not want to cross. He had never had any opportunity to do so, but he knew now that if he ever did, treading carefully would be of utmost importance.

The Regent Queen rose, as elegantly as she did everything, and walked to the large leaded window that overlooked the courtyard of Beaulieu, her fingertips tapping alongside the spines of the books casually piled everywhere. "I ask for so little," she said sweetly. "I assumed you would be eager to assist me with this task. Was I incorrect in my thinking?"

Rory steeled himself. "No, you were not. You know I would be honored to help you with this, but we both know I am the wrong man for the task."

She turned, and suddenly he was a bug, crawling pathetically under her gaze. Another unexpected revelation: Rory understood what it was like for those men she had rejected. Even knowing she was kind did not prevent the sting of humiliation, not when she applied it so expertly. "A man," she said. "Yes, that is what I expected to find when I ventured here. Not a boy, still enamored with his little mysteries and his picture books."

There was a very loud part of Rory that wanted to ask if she had always been this vindictive, and she had hidden it from him on purpose, but it was impossible to do so when she was staring at him like that. Rory spoke ten languages, and they all dried up under the onslaught of that hostile gaze.

"So," she continued, "you shall travel to this valley in the far north, and you will capture the criminals and brigands who live there, and you will bring them back to Beaulieu. Thus, justice shall be served."

Rory swallowed hard. He did ride well, usually when he wanted to clear his head, or examine a problem from a different angle, but he had only the most basic of defense training, and could barely use Lion's Breath, the ancestral sword of Fontaine, at all. It wasn't quite right to say that she was sending him to his death—because surely, that was impossible. But then it had been impossible to imagine her ever speaking to him with that particular tone in her voice before. Today, the impossible had become possible.

"I assume we leave at first light tomorrow," Rory said, "and I assume my guard shall accompany me."

Her face was so cold, it was etched in ice. Clearly she had not intended for him to take his guard, only the guard she had picked. Rory, who had read dozens of epic tales of bravery and disloyalty and of thrones and kingdoms changing hands, had somehow never once imagined that he would find himself in such a precarious position. After his parents had died in the carriage accident, and Sabrina had come, pale with grief but also determined to rule wisely in her five-year-old nephew's stead, he had never conceived that she would attempt to dispose of him, and keep Fontaine for herself.

And yet, it was as if a curtain had risen and Rory saw all her actions in a totally different light. Never encouraging him to learn to rule. Letting him lose himself in his studies and his books. Never once ordering him to learn to defend himself. He had no practical knowledge of which to speak, and he could not even blame that choice on her—it had been entirely his own. Her absence in his life had made it possible, but he had crafted the noose himself that would eventually be his doom.

If he let it.

"Your guard?" the Regent Queen questioned.

"I shall prefer to take my own guard," Rory said firmly. He was still the Crown Prince of Fontaine, at least until he left the walls of Beaulieu behind. He would exercise his rights—they were all that was no doubt between him and a mysterious "accident" during this dangerous journey.

"So be it," she said, smugness edging her voice. She clearly believed that his fate was in her hands, regardless of the guard.

He would just need to ensure that all was not what it seemed, at least to her eyes.

Once the Regent Queen departed, Rory hastily packed a few thin manuscripts that he believed might serve him well on this trip, and then made for the guard's quarters on the other side of the courtyard.

His guard was famously comprised of the best female warriors in the kingdom, though they saw little to no action. It occurred to Rory as he approached their barracks that Sabrina might think so little of her own sex that she had appointed his guard hoping they would be less competent, but if that was the case, then the joke was on her. Marthe, who headed the Prince's guard, was the most terrifying fighter that Rory knew, and the rest of the guard, handpicked by Marthe, had spent their lives being undervalued and underappreciated, and worked twice as hard as a result.

Rory found Marthe sharpening her longsword just inside the barracks, in the common room. He had no idea how circumspect he needed to be, because if his aunt was half as disloyal as he imagined, she would certainly have spies planted all over Beaulieu.

Marthe shot him a look over her whetstone. "Lost, are you, my prince?" she asked.

It was true, he rarely came down to the courtyard, and almost never into the barracks. A point Marthe had made many times over, but which Rory had never deigned sufficiently important to listen to. He was listening now.

"We are to leave first thing in the morning," Rory said, tempering the order with an apologetic tone. It was hardly enough time to mount a fully armed guard, which no doubt was something the Regent Queen was counting on.

Marthe raised an eyebrow questioningly. "A journey? To where?"

Certainly, she was likely expecting that Rory wanted to visit a neighboring castle with some particular tome in its library. They had done that before, on more than one occasion.

"We are tasked by the Regent Queen to travel to a valley in the far north and apprehend brigands who have set upon some of our supply trains." Rory managed to get most of it out without flinching, but his voice wavered at the end. Not enough that many might notice, but Marthe was exceedingly observant.

She sighed, a long, terrible gust. "I see," she said, and Rory suddenly had an inclination that she did. That maybe Marthe had been watching and waiting for something like this sudden journey to come to pass. Hopefully, Rory thought, she was more prepared than he was.

When she stood, Marthe was several handspans taller than Rory himself. She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We will be ready," she said, confidence ringing out from every syllable. "I will gather the guard immediately and set preparations in motion." She gave him a single, knowing look, and went out the door to the courtyard.

Rory could not be entirely certain, but it did seem as though Marthe understood the potential treachery of the journey and what must be undertaken to prevent it.

At least he hoped so, because he himself was woefully and painfully unprepared to face whatever they encountered.

Dawn was a gray smudge on the horizon when Rory walked into the courtyard to meet his guard. There were five of them, led by Marthe, their heavy armor shining dully in the early morning light. Marthe's expression was grim but determined, much like Rory expected his own was.

The Regent Queen had not awoken early to see them off, but Rory was not surprised by this, as he might have been once. He had lain awake the night before and gone over in his mind so many incidents over the last fifteen years. Small, insignificant events now took on greater meaning once examined with an understanding of Sabrina's clear purpose. Rory saw just how effortlessly she had manipulated him, and in fact, much of the court of Beaulieu. Even though he was hardly alone, the thought undeniably stung. He was the Crown Prince, Fontaine was his country to rule, and he had stood aside and let her do whatever she wished to it. The land seemed to be thriving, but it was impossible to say if that was actually true, or just another of his aunt's subterfuges.

"Prince Emory," Marthe said respectfully, nodding towards a page who had appeared in the doorway from the castle proper. He carried a scroll, which was no doubt a signed declaration of their purpose, signed by his aunt. He was the Crown Prince, he should not need permission to be riding with armed guards or to apprehend criminals, but Rory realized that this act took away any agency he'd grasped when he'd requested his own guards. She was reminding him, in that cruelly subtle way of hers, that he was on her business. That he lived and breathed by her grace.

He took the scroll from the page with clenched teeth and a sharp nod. He could not thwart protocol, not so publicly, but he did not have to like it either.

They rode out in a loose triangle formation, Marthe at the front, Rory in the middle, and the rest of the guard surrounding him. Protecting him, Rory realized as they stopped for a midday break.

Deep in the forest, it was difficult to imagine there were any spies, and for the first time, he and Marthe were able to speak freely.

"I knew she would make her move eventually," Marthe said, chewing her portion of bread and cheese carefully. "I knew it would be coming, and I was still surprised when it happened. Do not feel ashamed that it surprised you, my prince."

"How far is it to the valley?" he asked. He did not want to address how stupid he had been. It was hard enough to face his own idiocy; he did not want Marthe's sympathy, as kindly as it was meant.

"Several days' ride. Perhaps a week if we take our time," Diana, one of the guards, spoke up. "And we should. No good reason to get to the valley exhausted, with tired horses."

Rowen, another guard, gave Rory a contemplative look. "A week would even be enough time to give you some rudimentary training, Your Highness." She glanced down at the sword at his belt. "Perhaps not enough to truly use Lion's Breath, but enough to make sure you can defend yourself with a dagger, if need be."

"Yes," Marthe agreed. "We will stop early every evening, and spend that time working with the Prince. He has our protection, but he must also learn to protect himself."

Rory couldn't stop himself from making a face. He knew it needed to be done; in fact, it should have been done long ago, and no doubt, would have, but his aunt had clearly wanted him to be helpless and completely indebted to his guard.

"Prince Emory," Anya laughed. "Truly, it will not be so bad. After all, don't you enjoy reading books about weapons? Skirmishes and battles? Military strategy?"

He did, but the idea of practical application made his stomach clench and then roll unpleasantly.

Marthe smiled at him. "It's quite a lot of adjustment to make at one time. You'll get used to it."

Rory had no doubt that he would eventually—he just did not particularly want to.

Later that afternoon they stopped just as the sun was just beginning to sink, and as Rowen and Acadia set up camp, Marthe, Diana and Anya worked with Rory to master using one of the small-handled sharp daggers they all carried. To Rory's surprise, Marthe even pulled a wickedly sharp version out of one of the packs, and gifted it to him, handle first.

"Is this mine?" Rory asked.

Marthe nodded. "Very useful at close range, and if you can learn to throw it, useful even at a longer range. Unfortunately, a week is not really enough time to teach the latter."

"In my country," Anya said, "we learn to throw these when we're practically in the cradle."

Rory had forgotten that Anya was not originally from Fontaine—but when you looked closer at her dark braided hair and steely gray eyes, the hint of wildness in her expression gave her away. "You come from Ardglass, right?" Rory asked.

Of all the countries bordering Fontaine, he knew the least about Ardglass. Of the Ardglass of old, he knew much, but thousand-year-old history could not help him much now. If by some miracle, he survived this journey, going back to Beaulieu might not be possible; he might need to seek asylum in another country. Ardglass was the closest, and also currently in the direction they were headed.

"I do, Your Highness," Anya said as she adjusted his grip on the dagger. "My father started teaching me to fight when I was very small, and I had hoped to wield a sword in the garrison there, but . . ." She hesitated. "After the Crown Prince disappeared, nothing was the same. The King withdrew from court, the garrisons were mostly disbanded. The kingdom is a shadow of what it once was."

Rory knew Prince Graham of Ardglass had disappeared shortly before his own parents were killed, fifteen years earlier, but he did not know the details of the situation. Many believed he was dead and would never be found. Anya looked upset enough by divulging just that much information that he did not want to press her.

"Focus," Marthe barked at him as he practiced shoving the dagger into an old rotten log that Diana and Rowen had found and hauled upright to replace the sandbags they usually practiced on. "Put all your force behind your strike."

Next, they began to teach him defensive maneuvers with the dagger, and an hour later, he collapsed next to the fire, damp with sweat and utterly exhausted.

And the next night, Rory thought miserably, it would start all over again.

The trip to the valley took, as Diana had predicted, just over a week. The last day was a difficult climb on the horses, and on Rory himself. He was sore from a week straight of riding from dawn to late afternoon, and then hours after of swordplay and sparring. He had finally graduated, with grudging acceptance from Marthe, from the dagger to his ancestral sword, and hefting the heavy weight had left his arms weak and tired. Another man might be ashamed that he was far less proficient or seasoned than any of his guards, but then they did not speak ten languages. Rory had spent his lifetime indulging in the pursuits that he enjoyed. They might have even borne fruit, if he had truly been expected to succeed the Regent Queen and take over the throne of Fontaine. But finally, he understood that she had never had any plans to abdicate in his favor. And now that he was twenty, and of perfectly suitable age to rule, she had clearly felt the need to remove him completely.

At night when he lay in his bedroll, he should have been tired enough to sleep, but he lay awake instead, turning his aunt's actions and motives over and over and over again in his head. How could she have hated him so much? He had tried never to be much trouble, and there had always been so many servants to make sure that she was never truly bothered by his presence. She had never needed to be a mother to him; if he'd wanted one, he'd understood very quickly that that was not a position she wished to hold, and he'd lost himself in his books instead. He realized she'd undoubtedly seen the advantages of his scholarly interests and had encouraged him to cultivate them.

It was on the third night that Rory realized that it wasn't that his aunt loathed him or wished him dead. It was not about him at all. Instead, it was power that drew her and controlled her. She would do anything in search of more, and if he stood in the way, then he must be eliminated. She could not risk the chance of anyone suggesting, especially himself, that he take the throne.

Rory resolved that he would not be disposed of quite so easily.

On the eighth morning, Rory and his guard stood on the edge of the valley, their horses impatiently shifting their hooves, ready to make the descent down to the lush land below.

"If I'd known this place existed, I'd run and hide here too," Acadia said.

Rory nodded, agreeing with her assessment. Trees ringed the edges of the valley, fringed with bright green leaves and sharp sweet-smelling needles. As the ground sloped downward, the pockets of trees gave way to meadow land, plush, waving grass as soft and luxurious as velvet. Wildflowers bloomed intermittently across their view—purples and yellows and blues and reds almost blinding in their intensity. A stream meandered through the very center of the valley, far enough away to look like a lazy silver snake. And as far as the eye could see, only one set of dwellings.

"That is where the criminals must be hiding," Marthe said, extending her hand to point towards the small grouping of buildings. It was far enough into the heart of the valley it was nearly impossible to see if any people were wandering about, but even from this distance, Rory could see the farm was well-kept, with several large fields beyond its walls and a large garden on the other side, the pattern of the broken ground much different from the undisturbed land.

It did not look like a hideout populated by bandits, but Rory knew enough to understand that sometimes appearances were deceiving.

"Your Highness," Marthe said, her voice taking on the taint of deference that he rarely heard from her—and had truthfully never wanted. In this realm, away from the library and his books, he was out of his element. "Your Highness," she repeated when he did not respond, "it may be better for you to lead the way."

He shot his captain a disbelieving look. His guard may have been training him every day on this journey, but seven days of training could not possibly make up for a lifetime of skipping it. Marthe knew that as well as Rory did.

"The appearance of you leading the way, then," Marthe corrected, the corner of her lips tilting into an amused smile. "These are your lands, after all."

But Rory, who had made a considered study of his own lands, shook his head. "If they are mine, they have been on no map that I have ever seen."

"Regardless," Marthe insisted, and finally, Rory inclined his head, agreeing with her assessment.

He led the way down the incline towards the valley floor, marveling the whole way at the undisturbed and spectacular greenery surrounding them.

"It's as if someone planted a garden and then left it to grow for a very long time," Anya murmured to Rowen, her voice pitched low, as if words did not belong in such a beautiful place.

"It gives every appearance of being empty except for the farm," Marthe warned him a few minutes later, "but I would be very surprised if there were not invisible guards or booby traps, all planned to warn the inhabitants of strangers coming upon this place."

Rory couldn't help but agree with Marthe; it seemed impossible the valley could exist, and yet be so unguarded. Yet as they ventured further into the valley, they saw no evidence of any human presence. Birds chattered in the trees, their song lighthearted and free, and from a distance they caught sight of squirrels and other small animals frolicking through the tall grasses. But they were completely undisturbed.

As they grew closer to the farm itself, Rory found himself growing tenser and tenser, battling the sense of relaxation and peace the valley seemed determined to lend him. Such an unmapped, undiscovered, perfect place could not exist. It must be some kind of trap, and Sabrina was just waiting to spring it, capturing Rory and his guards in her deathly grip.

"Carefully, my prince," Marthe warned quietly as they approached the farm. It contained four well-maintained outbuildings, as well as the central farmhouse. A large garden spread out like a flawless coverlet across the front of the farm, and at the back, corn grew tall and thick as far as Rory could see. But as much as his eyes scanned the grounds, he could not see any of the people who had clearly worked very hard to make it a haven.

"It looks . . ." Diana hesitated, like she did not even want to voice the sentiment they were all thinking.

"Abandoned," Marthe finished briskly. "And yet it cannot be. This place is impeccably kept. There are clearly people about, they just do not want to be found. It is our job to find them."

Rory didn't want to dismount and leave his horse behind. He felt like he was abandoning the one advantage he had, which was his excellent horsemanship. However, Rory wasn't dumb enough to think he could properly join in the search while on horseback. So he tied up Chestnut, his fine brown stallion, and watched as the rest of his guard did the same.

"Pairs," Marthe ordered, and as the rest of the guard paired off, she walked over to Rory's side, hand on her sword pommel. "Shall we?" she asked him as they watched the rest of the pairs begin to walk cautiously around the seemingly deserted farm.

Rory nodded, and they started together towards the garden. He knew very little of such things, except in theory, but the garden looked extremely well-tended, with neat, orderly rows of vegetables, the ground around the plants entirely cleared of weeds. He reached over and plucked a small tomato from a nearby plant.

"Hey, watch yourself," a voice said, and Rory looked, and then kept looking as a very tall man, shirtless, his face and muscular chest smeared with dirt, rose from the middle of a patch of squash.

Marthe was instantly by his side, sword out of her belt, but the man simply looked at her, expression blank and bored. He spread his empty hands in front of him. "If you're hungry," he said, "take what you like. If you are lost, you may stay."

The man's hair was long and dark, nearly shaggy, but did not obscure the bright blue eyes that gazed out at him. A bead of sweat trickled down his bare and undeniably dirty pectoral muscle. Rory swallowed hard. He had never met anyone like this man before—someone rough and uncouth and utterly, completely compelling. Rory felt his blood sizzle, like a drop of water on a stove that had been stoked with firewood all day. He stared, mesmerized, by the man. Was he a bandit? He certainly did not seem like one, if his offer of food and shelter was any indication.

"Sir," Rory said, trying to find his voice under Marthe's accusing stare, "we are in search of some dangerous criminals who have been looting the supply wagons from Fontaine."

The man gave him a disbelieving look. "Does it look like we're harboring bandits here?"

Truthfully, it did not. It looked to Rory that all the man was harboring was an excellent crop of vegetables. As well as a physique that made Rory desperate to reach out and place a palm on that firm chest, even though it was smeared with dirt and sweat. Somehow, that made it even more attractive, though Rory did not think that thought could possibly be logical.

But Marthe was clearly not as distracted by such a fine chest as Rory was. Her glare was still fierce. "You will not mind if I do not take your word for it," she said. "I would like to search the grounds and buildings of your farm."

The man threw his head back and laughed. Rory did not know what was so amusing, but he discovered that he was desperate to know.

"There is nothing here but my farming implements, the animals I keep here, and the store of food to last us through the winter," he admitted. "But feel free to search all you like."

"Do you have any weapons here?" Marthe asked, her hard voice making it clear she did not believe the act. If it was even an act. Rory was strangely inclined to believe his words, but that might have been because of his beautiful eyes.

"A dagger or two," the man said, leaning against his shovel. "We have no need of weapons here."

Marthe sniffed. "We will be the judge of that." After throwing Rory another reprimanding look, she marched away, clearly intending to find the rest of the guard and do a thorough search of the farm. Rory thought she must not have thought the man was a threat, or else she never would've left him alone.

The man stared at Rory, who stared back. "Do you always travel with a full complement of lady warriors?" he asked offhandedly.

Rory blushed. It was impossible to admit to this man, who looked eminently capable of dispatching any threat, weapons or no, that Rory had to, because he could not defend himself. "It was very rude of me not to introduce myself," Rory said, extending a hand, "I am Prince Emory of the kingdom of Fontaine, but you may call me Rory."

It was as if his words changed everything. The man's eyes went blank, his face cold and hard, and he turned away, leaving Rory awkwardly standing with his hand out. "Gray," he said shortly. "Welcome to the valley."

One of the reasons Rory had always loved reading was that he felt an inescapable compulsion to know things. His curiosity was legendary, and faced with a man such as Gray, couldn't have been more engaged even if he'd tried.

"How long have you lived here?" Rory asked, as Gray returned to his squash, carefully digging around a plant. "How did you come to be here? I have never seen this valley on a map before."

Gray did not bother to meet his eyes as he responded, his tone short and hard. "I have been here many years. It's a haven for those who are lost, a magical place not found on any maps."

It did not make any sense at all for Sabrina to believe that the bandits stealing their supplies would hide in a magical valley for the lost. They might have little in the way of a moral compass, but they could hardly be lost.

"Are you lost then?" Rory asked.

Gray looked up then, eyes boring into Rory's own. He said nothing for a long moment. "Aren't we all lost?" he asked. "In our own ways?"