1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Rhys—in this iteration of his life, he was going by Rhys, which he found particularly ironic, because that was the first name that he had ever gone by besides his own—had no purpose.

That was not entirely true.

He had had a purpose.

It had been a purpose he'd devoted hundreds of years to—solidifying the kingdoms of Fontaine and Ardglass, and in the process wiping out the lineage of sorcerers and sorceresses who would use the people of those countries for ill.

Sabrina, the final sorcerer in her line, was dead, killed by a magical relic that Rhys had used the last of his waning power to imbue with fire.

Lion's Breath, the Fontaine king he'd gifted it to long ago had called it.

And it had hung, somewhat innocuously, on the sword belt of many kings of Fontaine, until it was needed, and the right man, the crown prince of Ardglass who also happened to be the lover of the crown prince of Fontaine, had picked it up and had used the power within it to kill the last sorceress.

Always, before Rhys could manufacture a scenario in which the wielders of too much power were eliminated or killed, they had trained others.

It had been a blight on this land and on the others around it, for hundreds of years.

But finally, the blight was gone.

Sabrina had been power-hungry and had declined to ever share what she'd gathered. She'd had followers, but Rhys had done his due diligence. They'd never had true access to the power.

Her selfishness had been her doom, and finally, Rhys' success.

And now he was back at the kingdom of Fontaine, playing an advisor, and playing at being Rhys again.

He had been many people in his thousands of years.

He had been Evander, the Guardian of Secrets, the longest, but it was still painful to think on everything he'd lost, so he'd rejected that name.

For a time, the guise of the King of the Unicorns had been both useful and a pleasant boost to his ego. Evrard, he'd styled himself then. Nobody knew that Evrard was not his original form.

Nobody except the remaining twelve Guardians, and since in the hundreds of years since he'd been banished, he'd never seen any of them again, he believed they'd forgotten all about him.

The main problem with being Rhys again was that he did not want to be Rhys. Rhys was boring. Rhys had always been a means to an end. First to protect his original identity. Then to gain access to power and influence, both in Ardglass and Fontaine.

He'd intended to retire as Rhys, once he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do, but he had not anticipated that without any purpose driving him, being Rhys again—possibly being Rhys forever—would feel so uncomfortable and foreign.

He had not thought of himself as Evander in hundreds of years, but he was beginning to wonder if maybe that was the form that had fit him the best.

"Rhys, I asked you a question."

He raised his head, realizing that he had actually drifted off during a council meeting, and Emory, King of Fontaine, was looking at him like he'd just grown a second head.

He checked, very briefly, to make sure that he hadn't. Because with his shape-shifting powers, he could, in fact, grow a second head.

"Ah, yes, you did, Your Highness, and I was currently contemplating the answer."

Rory shot him a look that made it clear he did not believe this for a second. Gray, his husband and partner-king, was sitting next to him, smirking.

He knew better.

Of anyone, it was likely Gray knew him the best. Gray had known both Rhys, when he'd been Gray's tutor during his childhood in Ardglass, and Evrard, the unicorn.

He'd never known Evander.

But then nobody did anymore.

Evander was better left dead and buried, banished and vanished, but for some reason, now, he could not stop thinking about that life.

It's because you are so very bored.

"Then, what is the answer?" Rory asked.

The problem was that Rhys had not been paying attention. He'd been thinking—not the sane, routine kind of thinking that led to productivity and intelligent analysis, but the dangerous kind. The kind where he could not help but wonder . . . what if?

He already knew what if was pointless.

He was never going to be Evander again.

But he could not stop thinking about it anyway.

Rhys gritted his teeth. Gray was openly grinning now, and there was nothing more he'd have liked than to wipe that smug look off his former student's face, but that would mean being able to move backwards through time and actually listen to the question Rory had asked. That was a talent he had never possessed. Kadir could. But Kadir was not here. He was likely still at the Castle at the Top of the World. Maybe he was even staring down at Rhys now, laughing at him.

"Could you please repeat the question, Your Highness?"

"I asked, did you have an opinion on the amount of grain allowances for the North Mountain villages?"

Rory did not gloat, he merely repeated the question. Rory was growing as a leader and a ruler, gaining a reputation over the last year of being strong, but just. Gray had helped with the strong part, but he could often be hotheaded. Rory, on the other hand, approached things with a more analytical mind, with an eye to fairness. It was what made theirs such an excellent partnership.

Rhys comforted himself by remembering that he had arranged this partnership, and it had worked out—with only a few hiccups—just as he'd planned it would. Rory and Gray had always been meant for each other, but even Rhys had not foretold how well they would suit each other. How deeply they'd fall in love.

"I do, in fact," Rhys said, summoning his most dignified tone. "We have the extra grain, yes?"

Gray checked the parchment in front of him. "Yes, in fact, we do," he said. "The summer was mild, with plenty of rain, and the lowlands produced a record surplus."

"Then instead of letting it rot in the storehouses, we should give everyone an additional amount," Rhys said.

Rhys could have sworn Rory was hiding a smile. "That is an excellent suggestion," he said.

"And it's exactly what I said," Gray muttered under his breath.

Not for the first time, Rhys wondered what he was doing here. Gray and Rory might have needed his help at first, but they'd been ruling for a year now, and married for six months. They were happy and settled and the kingdom was growing and healthy again.

But where else could he go?

The valley again?

He'd always retreated to the valley whenever he was lost or frustrated—but the idea of being alone was . . . for the very first time, unpleasant.

Gray had clearly gotten under his skin, a situation Rhys was still trying to be annoyed about.

"Next on the agenda . . ." Rory began, before Rhys interrupted.

"Next on the agenda should be the succession of Fontaine," he said.

Gray rolled his eyes. "Not this again," he said. "We've only been married six months."

"And Rory has been king for a year, with no succession plan in place," Rhys reminded them.

"Rory is fine with that," Rory inserted with an easy smile on his face. He shared a glance with Gray. "Someday, we'll figure something out."

"Figure something out?" Rhys asked archly. "Is one of you miraculously going to be able to birth a child? No? Then you can't just figure something out. You're more intelligent than that, Emory."

"That's King Emory to you," Rory said, voice pleasant, but his eyes blazing with indignation.

"Maybe we should ask what you're intending to figure out," Gray said.

Yes, Graham of Ardglass had known him far too long, and knew him far too well. It was a problem, and a problem without a solution, which was Rhys' least favorite kind of problem.

"I don't know what you are referring to," Rhys said stiffly.

"Yes, you do," Gray said, leaning forward. "Your help has been invaluable, but surely there is something more that you'd like to do. Go establish your own kingdom? Where are the other unicorns?"

There'd been a time when Gray had spent very little time or effort thinking. There'd been a good ten years when Gray had been a purely physical being—between when Rhys had helped Prince Graham escape from the fortress at Tullamore, and Evrard had shepherded the hidden prince, now named Gray, through adolescence into adulthood in the Valley of the Lost Things. He'd put one foot in front of the other, rarely thinking or analyzing or considering. Then Rory had come along, all thought, and they'd changed each other.

Now Gray was just as dangerous with his brain as he was with a sword.

"Gone." Rhys licked his lips. "They're gone. They've been gone for a thousand years." Technically, they'd never really existed at all, but he'd enjoyed styling himself as Evrard, King of the Unicorns, because it had felt so different from Evander.

Evander would never be king of something so pure and innocent.

"Right," Gray said. "So, what are you going to do? Because we've got this all figured out."

"If you're looking for suggestions, I am sure Merleen might have a few," Rory said slyly, referring to the Mecant tribe member that their leader, Shaheen, had left at the court of Beaulieu. The Mecant had arrived after Rory had ascended to the throne, after he had sworn to help them gain their language back. Shaheen had studied with Rory, with a few of her family members, and then left Merleen to act as an ambassador when they'd returned to their nomadic ways.

Rhys had never met anyone less suited to being a diplomat than Merleen, except perhaps Gray, but what bothered him the most about Merleen was the unfortunate crush he'd developed on Rhys.

It was awkward, to have such a devoted follower, and then it had become worse when Gray and Rory had discovered Merleen's feelings.

"Merleen is going to birth your child?" Rhys asked with faux wide-eyed surprise. "I didn't realize he was capable of that."

"He's not. Though if it was going to be your child, I'm sure he'd find a way," Rory teased.

"This is hardly conversation fit for a council meeting," Rhys said stiffly.

"Yet you continually interfered in our personal life, and still do," Gray retorted. "Maybe we just want to be together for now. We don't need to create a family just yet."

"If you weren't rulers of Fontaine, I would agree," Rhys said. "But your situation is less stable than you imagine it is."

"No," Rory said resolutely, "it's plenty stable. Fontaine is peaceful, and its people are going to be well-fed this year. Ardglass is holding its first invocation of the clans in three hundred years. Things are . . ." Rory took a deep breath, like he was a little unsure of it himself. "Things are good. Which you're aware of. You're just bored, trying to find problems where they don't exist."

Rory's immense intellect could be astounding, and it could also skewer like a rapier.

"I'm not bored. Bored is for . . ."

Except that Rhys knew that Rory was right. He was bored.

"Go take Merleen and visit the valley," Gray said with a smile. "He'd like that."

Rhys had tried very hard not to encourage Merleen. His affection was determined, and he'd been stubborn about it. He'd never actually propositioned Rhys, but the implications of his feelings were clear enough.

And it was not that Rhys could not possibly return them . . . it was just not something he did. Not anymore.

Not for a very long time.

Not since Vanya.

But Merleen wanted more than just a quick fuck, and he seemed to realize, despite his persistence, that Rhys had no intention of giving in to his desires.

But still, he persisted.

It made Rhys uneasy, and so did Rory and Gray's teasing—even though they clearly meant well.

"Yes," Rory said decisively, "you should take Merleen and go on a trip to the valley. Take an extended leave."

"What about the council?" Not the official council of Fontaine, though Rhys did sit in on those meetings too, but the more unofficial council meetings that Rhys, Rory, and Gray held several times a week.

"I think we can manage very well without you," Gray said with amusement.

Rhys had no intention of going anywhere with Merleen, and he definitely did not intend to ever take the man to his valley.

Merleen was quiet and at first Rhys had found him all silent muscle and no brain, but then he'd realized, sometime in the last six months, that while he rarely spoke, he watched.

He watched Rory and Gray; and had watched Count Aplin and the Duke of Rinald, had even warned Shaheen about them, when Rhys had still been convinced they were annoying but ultimately harmless; he watched Marthe, who had been the leader of Rory's guard, but now served as the general of his armies; and he certainly watched Anya and Diana and Rowen and Acadia, who now made up Rory and Gray's guard; but most of all, he watched Rhys.

Sometimes Rhys wondered if Merleen had uncovered all his secrets merely by watching, but that was impossible.

He had too many, so many he had never even said out loud.

"Thank you, but I feel I must decline your generous offer," Rhys said stiffly. "My place is here, not chasing after some ephemeral dream."

"Right," Gray said, grinning. "Because that's what you would have told us, a year ago."

"You were a very different scenario," Rhys said. "You were fated to find each other."

"And you have no fate for yourself?" Rory's tone was kinder, softer, but it didn't hurt any less.

"None," Rhys said with finality, and stood. "Now I must consult with Marthe about a . . . about a situation."

He didn't need to consult with Marthe about anything, but he had to get out of this chamber, with its walls closing in, before he lashed out.

He'd learned the hard way to not be angry, to not make decisions and act before he'd thought through every possibility first. He thought he'd long since trained away Evander's impetuousness—hoping to avoid paying that steep cost ever again—but now it seemed it was back in spades.

All it took was a little aimlessness.

Rory and Gray let him walk out, even with his painfully bad excuse, and didn't try to stop him from leaving; for that, at least, Rhys was grateful.

On days he needed to escape, there was nothing better than shedding the skin of Rhys, and donning a new one.

This afternoon, he took on the form of the fastest thoroughbred in Rory and Gray's stable, galloping over the countryside for hours, letting the wind stream through his mane.

He used to do this as Evrard, but Evrard was a mystical form that had never really existed, except in men's imaginations, and so it was harder, more of a drain on his internal magic, to maintain it.

Besides, he'd created an entire persona as Evrard. And that persona would never have gone running, without a destination in mind, across muddy fields and up grassy knolls, and would absolutely have given a shit if his mane got tangled or he got spots on his glossy white coat.

This way he could . . . be a little more anonymous.

Nobody else knew he could shape-shift, except Rory and Gray. They only knew that it could happen, not that he did it regularly—though he'd promised himself that he wouldn't, now that there was no purpose—so it was a surprise after running for hours, until night had long since fallen across the castle of Beaulieu, to see Merleen melt out of the shadows as he emerged, newly changed into Rhys, through the castle gate.

"Where have you been?" Merleen asked, voice low. There was something about it, something about his demeanor, unassuming yet tinged with an undeniable physical power and prowess, that reminded him of someone.

Rhys had yet to put his finger on exactly who it was, but he assumed that if he hadn't remembered, it wasn't important. Surely it must be one of the inconsequential soldiers he'd met over the years—and there had been thousands of them. So many that Rhys could not possibly remember all their names or why they'd been important.

"Out," Rhys said shortly. He was not in the mood for Merleen's games tonight. The way that Merleen would push right up to Rhys' boundaries and then hold there, unwavering, making it clear that he had no intention of giving up.

He continued to stride into the courtyard, pockets of light dotting the cobblestones. But even though he avoided them, and he did not look back, he could sense Merleen following in his footsteps.

"Out where?" Merleen finally asked, after the guards had opened the main doors, letting them into the castle proper.

Rhys glanced behind him, even though he'd told himself that he wouldn't.

It was that weird taste of the familiar, that was why he hadn't dismissed Merleen completely. Or at least that was what he kept telling himself.

Merleen took a step forward, shadows creasing his face.

"Out," Rhys repeated again, making his tone inexorable, his point inarguable. "I was not aware my movements were the business of the Mecant ambassador."

Merleen chuckled. "You are the counselor to kings. How could you be anything else but of interest?"

He wasn't handsome, not in a traditional sense. His features were too harsh for that, like they'd been carved not from marble, but from plain stone and then worn down from too many years exposed to the elements. His nose was too big, and his eyes were sunken, a dark, dark brown that seemed to look at Rhys and really see him.

Not just Rhys.

Not Evrard.

Not any of the fleeting forms he'd taken over the years.

But . . . someone he hadn't been in a very long time.

He was big, too—built like a mountain. Even in the muted fabrics, unlike what the rest of his tribe enjoyed, a cacophony of color and pattern, he was formidable.

"I am nobody and, as such, am of no real importance, no matter who I counsel," Rhys said. Such humility was not his typical style, but the way Merleen kept looking at him made the back of his neck itch and his blood burn.

Rhys supposed if they ever fought, he could win, but it would take every bit of his ingenuity and magic to defeat Merleen's pure physical force.

He knew this, because when he was supposed to be pretending that Merleen didn't exist, he would occasionally watch the training that Merleen shared with the other members of Rory and Gray's guard.

Gray himself had even praised Merleen's sword work on many occasions, and it took serious skill to impress him. But Rhys hadn't needed Gray's word to believe that Merleen was both talented and powerful. He'd seen the evidence with his own two eyes, even as he'd tried to pretend that he hadn't.

Then again, it would be seriously easy to disarm him now.

All it would take would be Rhys drawing closer, slipping right under Merleen's guard, and reaching up, pressing their lips together.

One night in Rhys' bed, and Merleen would be his to command.

Except that Rhys wasn't interested in commanding anyone. Not anymore.

Not even Merleen.

Merleen chuckled again. "No real importance? Then why did Shaheen task me to keep an especial eye on you?"

"I do not think you needed an assignment to keep an eye on me," Rhys said, deciding he was done playing around. Or maybe it was merely the boredom talking again.

Merleen did not so much as flinch. Rhys had to give him at least a little credit; the man had nerves of steel, surprising for a human of relatively young age. "You've been paying attention."

Rhys rolled his eyes. It was undignified but what did it matter? Merleen was like him—nobody. "I'm not blind."

"No." Merleen's voice was entirely steady, and Rhys did not see him flush. Then he took a step closer, and suddenly he was as close as he'd ever been.

Rhys would have denied it til the end of time, but his mouth went a little dry, and he had to crane his head back. Rhys was short and unassuming, which was the way he'd been designed, and well, Merleen was not.

Suddenly, it occurred to him who Merleen reminded him of.

Marcos.

A name he had not thought of in hundreds of years.

He'd been too busy trying to right the wrongs the Guardians had let fester to worry about something as petty and small as revenge, but the anger surged through him again, as fresh as it had been a thousand years ago.

Before he could tell him off, once and for all, Merleen ducked his head. "You see everything and everyone," he said in a hushed tone, as if people could overhear them.

But nobody would, the corridor was empty, as the residents of the castle were currently packed into the Great Hall for the evening meal.

Rhys realized, suddenly, the knowledge unsettling him, that Merleen had picked precisely this time for their conversation so they wouldn't be interrupted.

"You are certainly difficult to miss," Rhys said bluntly. "Even if I was not quite so observant, your presence wouldn't go unnoticed."

Merleen's smile was unexpected. "I know," he said, without any self-consciousness whatsoever.

It occurred to Rhys that maybe he'd underestimated him, the same way he'd underestimated Marcos.

Marcos had fooled him, hadn't he?

That took skill and audacity.

Merleen apparently had the same traits in spades.

Rhys pushed away thoughts of Marcos. After all these years, he had no intention of letting the Guardian of War unsettle him again.

This isn't going to hurt anything, he reasoned with himself as he let his body sway closer to Merleen still, and it might even alleviate your boredom for five minutes. Or so.

But before Rhys could close the distance between them, the corner of Merleen's lips quirked up to the side. "You never said," he pointed out, his voice hushed, "where you were this afternoon. If you think a kiss is enough to distract me, then you are sorely mistaken."

Rhys jerked back. Annoyed. More at himself, even, than at the smug look on Merleen's face.

He's not even handsome. You're just bored. So utterly bored.

"Where I was is none of your business," Rhys said in a harsh voice. Hating how fast his heart was beating.

Merleen knew now that his attraction was not completely one-sided.

Rhys had given that secret away—for free.

He straightened and turned away.

"Where are you going?" Merleen asked. Still completely unbothered. Like he hadn't been this close to kissing Rhys, something he must have been wanting for some time.

Anger flared through Rhys. Anger and humiliation.

"Wherever it is," Rhys said in a biting tone, "it is also none of your business." And he turned and walked off.

Rhys wished that he had somewhere he could go that would be infinitely more interesting than his chambers—some place that Merleen would have really liked to know about and wouldn't—but his life here was surprisingly simple.

He could have gone to the Great Hall, and eaten with Rory and Gray. He was always invited. But after running into Merleen, and having him not only school him, but realizing his similarities to Marcos . . . well, Rhys was not in the mood.

He stalked back to his chambers, and on the way, stopped a servant in the hall, asking for a tray of food to be brought to his room.

He would just have a nice quiet meal in front of the fire. Then he'd go to sleep, and everything would be normal again in the morning.

He didn't really believe it, but telling himself the lie was easier than dealing with the possibility that he was so dissatisfied with his life here that he'd nearly been tempted into kissing Merleen.

Vanya would have laughed at him for a hundred years, and never bothered to hide it.

Rhys slumped into the chair by the fire and sipped the wine that the servant had brought with the food.

As advisor to the kings, he'd been given a gold goblet, worked with a few carvings and even a subpar ruby set into the expanse just under the rim.

There'd been a thousand pieces better than this, in the storerooms at the Castle at the Top of the World.

He and the other Guardians had lived in luxury there, never wanting for a thing, merely needing to envision their desires in order for them to be made real.

Even a hundred years ago, he'd have said that he was missing the ease of that life. But he'd never minded living simply, without gold and silks and a dozen servants bowing and scraping.

He had no need of that. His growing relationship with Rory and Gray had shown him that. He'd been perfectly satisfied living in the valley with Gray for all those years, never wanting for anything.

Gray had become the son he'd never wanted, and then Rory had come along, and he'd somehow taken him under his wing, as well.

He supposed that if he was going to be honest, Rhys thought morosely, staring into the fire, he'd discovered that he could love, after all.

Not romantic love, though, that had died with Vanya, even though he'd never really been in love with him, not the way he knew love could be. Not the way he saw the love blossom and grow between Rory and Gray.

It was the affection and care he felt for them that kept him from leaving now.

That, and the fact that if he did leave, he had no earthly idea where he would go.

He finished the wine, his head swimming with it.

He would take his own advice to heart, and go to bed. Everything would seem better after a good night's sleep.

Except, after he settled in, under the velvet coverlet, he was still unsettled.

Rhys told himself that it was just his sudden realization that Merleen reminded him of Marcos—and that he'd almost kissed him anyway.

When he finally fell asleep, it was a light and fitful sleep.

He tossed and turned for hours, and woke, in the dead of night, at least an hour or so before dawn, with a voice—the voice—echoing in his head.

Rhys recognized it instantly.

Hundreds of years could go by, and he'd remember it all the same.

Vanya.

"Evander," the voice echoed. "Evander."

Rhys shot up in bed, his eyes wide open. He fumbled for the candle on the little table beside the bed, and it took four tries to get it lit.

When he did, finally, he waved it around, the flame flickering, the light dancing on the stone walls and the tapestries that covered them, but there was no Vanya.

Then he heard it again. "Evander," he called, "Evander."

He nearly answered him, out of habit, but then he snapped his mouth shut, biting down so hard on his lip that he tasted blood.

It was a dream.

A hallucination.

A vision.

Vanya was not calling for him. He was not here. It was just . . . a remnant of memory, from back when he'd known him almost as well as he'd known himself, and they'd been partners and friends and Guardians together.

Realizing that Merleen reminded him of Marcos, that thought had merely shaken loose some of his very old memories. The ones he'd tried very hard to forget.

He stayed in bed, upright and alert, for what must have been an hour, and then another, the candle finally sputtering in its own melted wax, until the first tendrils of dawn began to creep across the walls in his chamber.

"It was just a dream," Rhys told himself.

But he was not so certain.