4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

It was so peaceful on the farm, Rory could scarcely believe that danger could be imminent. After a training session with Anya, Rory sat down against the small, squat house that Gray had specified for their use. Inside it wasn't particularly fancy or luxurious. Simple wood interior, filled with basic but well-made wooden furniture. Trundle beds with mattresses filled with clean straw stood against the walls. The stable was equally simplistic, but also very clean and well cared for. Rowen, who tended their horses, hadn't had any complaints, and she could be particular about stables.

Rory watched the main house and wondered where Gray had gone. He'd been so abrupt in his refusal to give Rory a tour of the farm—then had unexpectedly softened his stance, instead claiming they could do it later. He couldn't help but wonder if later could possibly be now. Gray had been, at turns, both standoffish and clearly intrigued by Rory. And Rory, who had met plenty of men before in the castle of Beaulieu and elsewhere, had somehow never met a man quite like Gray before. He'd kissed a few boys—because now, after meeting Gray, it was undeniable that they had been boys, not men—but there had never been anyone as guarded and mysterious and exceptionally intriguing as Gray. His secrets seemed to have secrets, and Rory was just stupid enough to want him to share, even if such a possibility seemed ludicrous.

He stood, and decided that if he wanted a tour, then he would have to be the one to request one, again. Walking around the side of the main house, Rory stopped dead in his tracks.

Really, he didn't know how Gray kept stealing his breath and his words from his mouth, because he'd done it the first time they'd met, and now he'd done it again.

He was still stripped to the waist, but now he was washing, big handfuls of water cascading down his much-cleaner chest, the muscles even better defined as they shone wetly in the late afternoon sun. Reaching down, Gray groaned as he took a small wooden bowl and filled it, pouring it over his head and slicking his dark, wavy hair back. Clean, with no hair to obscure his features, his face was even more arresting, as if it had been carved by a master in one of Rory's art history texts. Rory's heart pounded and his skin felt too tight. Should he stop watching? It felt wrong to stare when Gray didn't know he was being observed, but Rory wasn't quite sure he could tear his eyes away.

He wondered if Gray was like many of Fontaine, who enjoyed the company of both women and men, and if he did, if he would ever be interested in someone like Rory. It was a wildly insane thought, as Rory was a prince, and the entire court of Beaulieu would have been aghast at the thought of Rory entertaining someone who was essentially a farmhand, but Rory simply couldn't help it. It was impossible to be faced with a man like that, with that face, and that chest, and apparently those legs, as the dripping water molded his baggy breeches to a pair of exceedingly fine legs, and not wonder. Gray was the kind of man that you saw once and thought about for a very long time afterward. And Rory, who couldn't deny he was used to getting nearly everything he wanted, wondered if he might have the opportunity to do more than just look.

"Are you done staring?" Gray asked, not even glancing in Rory's direction.

Oh, he'd been caught red-handed. Rory tried to paste on a contrite expression on his face, but he couldn't quite manage it. He did feel a bit guilty, but he didn't regret one moment of what he'd seen. Gray was too beautiful for that.

Rory had observed the behavior of some of the more romantically inclined courtiers in Beaulieu, and had long since noticed what set them apart from the other, less successful courtiers, was a brash sort of confidence. Not quite sure he could emulate that, Rory smiled and walked over, hoping a poised but purposeful saunter would do the trick.

It didn't, but that might have been the unexpected root he tripped over on his way to where Gray was wiping his face and hands with a clean, rough cloth.

"Are you alright?" Gray asked with amusement.

Rory inwardly cursed his prodigious mental abilities—because they always seemed to preclude any sort of physical grace. "Yes, of course," he said. "Is it later? I'd like my tour now."

Gray looked at him thoughtfully. "You can see all of the farm from this spot," he said. "What is it that interests you?"

You, Rory thought before he could stop the word from popping into his uncooperative brain. Always you.

But he did not quite have the confidence to say it, so he just gestured wildly to the surrounding areas. "Anywhere you like to go, particularly. Even with all the work you do to maintain the farm, you must have some time to yourself," he said. Certainly not his best effort, but not his worst either.

Gray smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, warming the blue until it reflected the sky high above. "There's a place I like that you might also enjoy," he said.

Your bed? Rory thought, but didn't say out loud, because even as a jest, he didn't know how it would be received.

He knew he was attractive, but he also remembered the way Gray's expression had shuttered when he'd introduced himself as Prince Emory. Maybe Gray didn't like members of the nobility. Maybe he'd had a bad experience, and that was why he was hiding out in this valley. Rory didn't anticipate successfully persuading Gray to tell him about his past, but he still intended to try.

"I'd love to see it," Rory said.

Gray laid the cloth he'd used to dry on a length of fence and pulled on a threadbare shirt that had been hanging from the post. Rory ordered himself not to be disappointed that Gray was covering up, and at the same time, wondered if it was because of him. Was it because Gray didn't want him to get any untoward ideas? Men didn't usually look at Rory and attempt to push him away, even if Rory rarely gazed back. They never seemed as interesting as his books did, though Gray put them all to shame.

Gray took them past the farmhouse, around the bend of the river, to a makeshift bridge, and walking over the rickety structure, he pointed out towards a meadow blanketed with flowers in a thousand different shades of purple. It gave the look of an endless, meticulously crafted coverlet, spread out across the ground, even though it was only Nature's random work. "Here," he said. "Sometimes I come here to think."

Rory knew that the man who had sat in the library tower in Beaulieu would have heard that and scoffed, imagining that a man such as Gray didn't do any thinking. At least any that was as intricate and important as the thinking Rory did. But something had shifted since he'd started this journey, and he was looking at the world and the people who inhabited it in a slightly different way now. He'd been so closed off in that tower, at first out of his own misplaced desire, and then because he suspected his aunt had never wanted him to look anywhere but at the book right in front of him. Now he was truly seeing, maybe for the first time, and he wondered at the risk she had taken to send him here, knowing that his world view might alter. Truthfully, the thought left Rory chilled to the core. Whatever was here, hidden in this valley, was important enough to be worth the risk, and he dreaded whatever consequences had followed him to Gray's farm.

"It's a beautiful place. Serene," Rory said, trying to shake his increasingly despondent thoughts from his head. He sat down, Gray following suit a few feet away. "What do you think about here?"

Gray tipped his head back and stared at the sky, an inky lock of wet hair sliding invitingly along his neck and exposed collarbone. Swallowing hard, Rory tried to follow suit and direct his attention to the sky above, but it was hard to turn away from someone so compelling.

He was silent so long that Rory was almost afraid he'd scared him away with the rather direct question. "Life," Gray finally said quietly. "Where it started, and how I ended up here."

"Was it your choice to come to the valley?"

"Choice? An interesting word and an even more interesting concept," Gray replied bitterly.

Much like some of Rory's tougher translations, he was discovering that Gray could be coaxed with space and plenty of time. Gray was suspicious and naturally cautious, and that, Rory realized, was because Gray didn't trust him.

Yet, he added to the end of the thought. Gray doesn't trust me yet.

But it was impossible to say if they would ever get a real chance to trust each other. In any other circumstances, Rory and his guard would've been on the road out of the valley first thing in the morning. The only reason they had decided to remain here was the uncertainty that awaited them. He and Gray could be separated tonight or tomorrow or any day in the near future, and an opportunity to learn and know and trust each other would never exist.

Gray plucked a deep violet flower and twirled it between his fingers. They looked thick with calluses from where Rory was sitting, but he was gentle with the flower, nearly delicate. "That is much of what I dwell on," he continued, his voice nearly as rough as his fingertips. "Choice. There is much in this life I never had the opportunity to choose, but in the end, it's not a bad life."

"I chose all of mine," Rory said, and to his own surprise, his voice was nearly as bitter as Gray's. Yes, he'd made every choice himself, and every one of them wrong.

"Doesn't sound like the choices were good ones," Gray pointed out. His hair, drying in the warm afternoon sunlight, was growing waves, and Rory itched to smooth it back, to feel those rich locks between his fingers. Unlike Gray, his fingers were still untouched and smooth, despite the week of practice, and he'd feel every single strand.

"They were selfish, and a little stupid," Rory admitted. "I'm sure you don't know what that's like. You give everything of yourself, every single day. I can see it in the way you take care of this place."

"It's a little selfish." Gray hesitated. "Working hard is a good way to avoid thinking about anything in particular."

Rory laughed, and unexpectedly, Gray smiled, his quiet happiness lighting up his blue eyes. "Don't tell Marthe that," Rory said conspiratorially, "she'd never let me forget it."

Reaching out, Gray lightly cupped his shoulder. "You look like you could use some hard work," he said, then as suddenly as he'd touched Rory, his hand dropped away. But Rory, shocked, felt the pressure radiating through his skin and muscle and bone, the heat of the single touch permeating him to his core.

It was hard to say with the sunlight and Gray's skin, tanned from working so many hours outdoors, but he might have flushed. "Sorry," he added quietly.

At first, Rory thought the apology was because you weren't supposed to touch royalty unless they invited it first. A lonely way to live, Rory had discovered. But then he realized that wasn't it at all. Gray lived here alone, with only the occasional visitor. He was likely unused to touching and being touched.

"You're not wrong," Rory said, refusing to acknowledge the apology, because Gray hadn't done anything worth apologizing for, "I could."

Gray stared at him, his eyes a penetrating and impossible shade of blue. Rory had never seen anyone with eyes like that, eyes that could bore into your very soul. He hesitated, wanting to shift closer, to be closer, but before he could, a voice interrupted them.

"There you are," Marthe said, striding into the field and ruining both the moment and the serenity. "I've been looking for you everywhere, Prince Emory."

Rory rolled his eyes.

"You should stay closer," she continued, "it's our job to protect you and we can't do that if you aren't close by."

She reached down and helped Rory to his feet, shooting Gray a look as she did so.

When they were across the bridge, Rory turned to her. "What did you do that for?" he hissed.

Marthe looked unimpressed by Rory's insistence. "Do what? Interrupt you? You should be close by. Also, that man is a stranger."

"A handsome stranger," Rory sighed.

Marthe laughed. "He may be, but he still is not to be trusted. He has yet to prove himself or his loyalty. His motives may appear pure, but anyone can hide behind an innocent mask." Her knowing gaze told Rory exactly who she was referring to: the Regent Queen.

"Fine," Rory agreed with a grumble.

"Besides," Marthe added, "Acadia is putting together a rather delightful-looking stew with vegetables from the garden, and I thought you might want to assist her."

"I don't know . . ." Rory started to say, but Marthe's single quelling look shut him right up.

"But you should learn," Marthe insisted flatly.

The sun set in a glorious wash of golds and reds and oranges. Rory stood outside the bunkhouse and watched it as it finally sank behind the trees rimming the valley, curtaining the meadow below in darkness.

"Come inside," Diana urged him, hand out, ready to corral him back into the shelter. She didn't know that what Rory most wanted was to go find Gray again and continue their conversation from earlier. He'd sat with them for the evening meal, mostly silent, and only answering questions put to him directly. He'd barely met Rory's eyes, and as soon as the food was gone, he'd ducked out, quietly murmuring that he had work to do securing the farm for the night.

"I want some air," Rory argued, and Diana shot him a fond look.

"Remember at Beaulieu, when we would have to physically drag you out of the library?" she asked. "What happened to those days?"

Rory wasn't entirely sure; only that he wasn't sure he would ever be the same after these weeks on the road. Even if, against all odds, he could return to Beaulieu and resume his life as it had been, he didn't think it would fit him as well as it had before.

"Oh," she added with a quick blush. "You want to find that farm boy, don't you?"

Diana was the nurturer of the guard, and also the romantic. She was always falling in love here and there. After a few weeks, the fairy dust would fade from her eyes, and then a month later, another girl would catch her eye. Rory knew he was not the only one who hoped that someday she might discover love a little closer to home and melt Marthe's grumpy heart.

"His name is Gray," Rory said. "And he's . . . well . . . you've seen him."

Crossing her arms across her chest, Diana's dark eyes grew bright with excitement. "But it's more than that, you like him."

"I don't even know him," Rory admitted.

"But you want to," Diana said slyly.

At Rory's nod, Diana clapped her hands happily and leaned closer. "If I distract Marthe, you could steal away for a little while," she said.

Rory raised an eyebrow and Diana blushed again, more fiercely this time. "Not like that," she insisted while Rory ducked out the front door and gave her a little wave. "If I'm not back," he said, and then thought better of his suggestion, because the last thing he wanted was, if something actually did happen, for one of his guardswomen to ruin the moment again. He shook his head briefly, and Diana gave him another grin and a happy little wave of encouragement.

First he checked the stables, but other than two horses, one occupying a stall with a large window, its face haughty and somehow familiar, the other plain and brown and steady, it was empty.

There were no lights on yet in the farmhouse Gray slept in, and even though the light was still peeping through the trees, dusk had fallen. Rory realized belatedly that he should have taken a lamp or even a candlestick if he was going to go wandering about a strange place at night. When he returned, Marthe would likely skin him. But then maybe tonight was the night that Diana and Marthe finally opened their eyes and truly saw each other for the first time. If that happened, then it wouldn't matter how late the hour it was when Rory returned to the bunkhouse.

Still, Rory remained undaunted, and headed towards the makeshift bridge and the meadow Gray had shown him earlier. It didn't make much sense to come here in the dark, but Rory was determined to leave no stone unturned. But after wandering around half-blind in a quickly darkening meadow, he finally hurried back over the bridge. Gray hadn't returned to the scene of their earlier moment. He was still nowhere to be found.

Marthe's voice whispered in his ear, maybe he has betrayed you after all. I told you not to trust him. But he shook his head, refusing to believe that someone with Gray's quiet, wry reserve, with all that kindness and determination in his eyes, could truly be bad.

He checked the stables again, heartbeat racing as he hurried from building to building, and then back to the garden, where they'd first met. But this time, the patch of squash was disappointingly empty. Where has he gone? Rory thought worriedly. Had he truly abandoned them?

It didn't seem possible, but then that was when Rory realized the pounding he was hearing wasn't just the beating of his own heart in the darkness. It was the pounding of horse hooves against the valley floor, and far more of them together than his guardswomen. There were visitors in the valley, and by the way they were riding at such a speed, they hadn't come for a friendly chat.

This was the trap that Marthe was so certain would be set for them here, and now it had been sprung, and where was Rory? Separated from his guard and hiding in a squash patch. He ducked behind a particularly tall plant and hoped he could make himself small and unobtrusive enough that he wouldn't be noticed in the dark.

He crouched down, reaching up to pull his cloak around him, hoping the bright blue which had seemed so eye-catching and flattering in Beaulieu wouldn't be the thing that gave him away to the intruders. Perhaps these were finally the brigands they had been warned of? Maybe he'd been wrong about his aunt all along, and she wasn't trying to kill him. The hope had just begun to bloom inside him—a perfectly peaceful resolution to a problem that hadn't actually been a problem at all—when he heard a female shout and then another, and he realized with lead sinking in his stomach that it was his guards, yelling at each other as they fought. He heard the first clang of metal on metal and grabbed the little dagger that Marthe had thankfully insisted he carry with him at all times, his trembling fingers closing tightly around the metal, his damp palm slippery on the handle. It was nothing, not compared to a sword or an ax or a war hammer, and he hadn't even been properly trained to wield it. A week's worth of lessons wasn't nearly enough to take on a fully grown soldier who had trained their entire life to kill silly little princes like Rory.

He could have grabbed Lion's Breath, still sitting ornamentally in its jeweled scabbard on his hip, but he was even more out of his depth with the sword than he was with the dagger, so he stuck to what he knew.

How had he come to this, hiding in a patch of dirt, trying desperately not to cry as his friends fought an unknown enemy? Rory knew one thing for certain; he was not proud of the decisions that had led him to this moment.

If I get out of this, he bargained with fate and the gods and whoever was listening, if I get out of this, and Marthe and Diana and Rowen and Anya and Acadia don't die, I will make different choices, I swear to you. I'll put others first. I'll stop being so selfish and self-centered. I'll figure out a way to take the throne and I'll rule my kingdom. Or at least figure out how to rule my kingdom. I won't hide in my books, not anymore. I'll face my aunt, and maybe I won't best her, but I won't let her win without a real fight.

He repeated it over and over again in his mind, eyes straining as he watched shadowy figures, with the occasional glint of armor, fight across the farm. If I get out of this, I will make different choices. Several of the male-shaped figures fell, and Rory prayed he had seen correctly—that it wasn't Marthe or Diana or Anya. He'd taken them for granted; their loyalty and their unyielding friendship. And then he'd selfishly made their job harder by sneaking out alone, in search of the man who had probably been the one to betray them to his friends.

Rory swallowed hard, pushing back the tears as the sound of battle echoed in his ears. If I get out of this, I will make different choices.

Hooves, walking, not riding, the sound cautious on the ground, like someone was trying to sneak towards the garden, caught his attention. Rory tensed, and tried to crouch down even lower. He wished he'd discarded the bright blue cloak; it would probably be his undoing in the end. God, what an idiot I have been. If I get out of this, I will make different choices.

More rustling, like a man was wading through the garden, but trying to be quiet about it. Rory considered giving up his hiding place and running. He also considered rising and attacking, which surely this soldier, come to kill him, wouldn't expect from useless Prince Emory.

He'd made all the wrong choices leading up to this moment, but it was surprisingly easy to choose one now. Rory didn't know if it was the right one or not, but he sprang out of the squash, brandishing his dagger, and froze at the figure in front of him.

Bright blue eyes shone even in the darkness, and even though the man wore a dark cloak, his face was unmistakable.

"Gray," Rory whispered, his heart thudding painfully. Gray had betrayed them after all. He'd been part of the conspiracy all along, probably sent here by his aunt to lie in wait for stupid, silly Prince Rory and his tiny guard, and to dispatch them to their deaths once darkness fell. And Rory, blinded by Gray's handsome face and impressive set of muscles, had pounced at the bait just as she'd intended.

It hurt, and it stung, somewhere deep inside, where he'd always been so proud of his intelligence, of how many languages he'd spoken. All pointless now, Rory thought bitterly. Anger swelled inside as they stared at each other in this dark vegetable garden, and he gripped the dagger harder and decided that if death was calling to him, then he would try his hardest to take Gray along.

A second before he sprang at Gray, fully intending to bury his dagger in his chest, Gray hissed at him. "We need to go."

"What?" Rory couldn't believe it. Was he truly going to continue this play act, like Rory hadn't seen right through it? Did he truly believe him that stupid?

"There's soldiers, assassins, I think. Your guard is holding them back but we must go," Gray begged. "They can't keep you safe. There aren't enough of them. If we can sneak out of this valley, we can find a place to be safe."

Rory stared at him. "You really think I would go with you? After you betrayed me?"

"I didn't betray you," Gray muttered. "But someone did."

There was no logical reason Rory could ascertain that he should trust Gray. It did seem extremely likely that Gray had been the instrument of his betrayal, but his heart must have been more constant than Diana's, because Rory yearned to trust him.

The sword fighting grew in intensity. He heard a heartrending yell, and his own heart turned over. One of his guards must have fallen. He did not know which, but if he was going to depend on logic, then it was clear Gray was right and they could not hold their attackers off forever. And, that quiet, annoyingly logical voice added, if Gray truly intended to kill him, he could kill him now, where they stood. He did not have to spirit him away to take his life.

Gray held out his hand. "We must go," he begged. "You must trust me."

"I suppose I must," Rory said and took his hand.

Gray took them outside of the garden, to where a horse was standing, heavy saddlebags loaded on its rump, but lacking a saddle. "We will ride," Gray said, and gave him a quick boost up to the horse, who glanced back at him, the intensity of his expression nearly matching Gray's.

You must be imagining things, Rory thought hysterically. But then Gray launched himself behind Rory, kicked at the horse's side and they were galloping away.

Unlike the soldiers, they were riding a horse who knew the land, and could also be astonishingly quick and quiet. Rory couldn't believe how little noise it made as they rode away towards the other side of the valley. Gray did not say a word to either the horse or to Rory, just clutched his back and Rory, burying his hands into the horse's mane, held on tight and fast.

The horse did not break pace until they reached the first cluster of trees on the other side of the valley, and then it began to slow.

"Nobody is following us," a voice said, almost eerie in the darkness. It was a completely different tone than Gray's voice, and yet it had to be Gray because Rory could not see anyone ahead of them, and the voice had come from very close.

"They could follow our tracks," Gray replied and his own voice was grim.

"I obscured them. It would take a very skillful tracker to follow," the other voice promised. A little smugly, if Rory had anything to say about it.

"Excuse me," Rory finally said. "Who goes there?"

Gray gave a short, unamused laugh and suddenly the horse slowed, and he dismounted. He held out his hand again for Rory to take, but Rory, suspicious and acutely aware of how alone they were in the forest, slid off the horse without his assistance.

"You said those who cannot see, do not see," Gray said, and Rory froze. His comment, unless Rory was more rattled than he'd believed, was clearly directed at the horse. "How do we open his eyes?"

"Whose eyes?" Rory demanded. "And what are they supposed to see?"

"Trust your instincts, they have yet to fail you," the voice said again, and even though the light was extremely dim, Rory swore it was the horse who was speaking. But that was completely, entirely impossible.

Gray sighed, and turned towards Rory, a wry smile on his face. "I would like to introduce you to Evrard, King of the Unicorns."

He had seen this horse twice before. Once, while searching for Gray earlier this evening, when he had walked into the stables, and again right before they took flight out of the valley. It had only ever looked like a horse to Rory, plain gray sides, normal musculature—a completely unassuming creature. But now, Rory looked closer, and suddenly, the horse's coat was not gray at all, but blinding, perfect white, like the first unadulterated snowfall. It had a horn, also white and shimmering vaguely in the moonlight.

Rory's jaw fell open as the horse—no, the unicorn—bowed to him. "Prince Emory of Fontaine," it said in its deep sonorous voice, "it is very good to meet you, though I do wish the circumstances were better."

"You always do," Gray muttered.

The unicorn—Evrard, Rory corrected, still stunned by the sudden turn of events—shifted his hooves impatiently, his long mane rippling. "Then I shall have to stop saving you and Prince Emory both from certain death," he retorted sharply.

"It's . . ." Rory found his etiquette rules falling short at being introduced to a unicorn, though Evrard was a king, so maybe that was where he should start. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness," Rory said, and bowed deeply.

"Ah, Prince Emory, the pleasure is entirely mine," Evrard claimed as Rory met his deep, jeweled eyes once more. "Your elegant manners are such a balm after spending years with this one."

This one clearly referred to Gray, who had a curious mixture of affection and annoyance on his face as he looked upon Evrard.

"Neither of us is very easy to live with," Gray offered wryly by way of explanation.

"How did such a creature come to live at your farm?" Rory wondered.

He fully expected to receive an evasive answer from Gray, and a smug one from Evrard, who clearly had not met an etiquette manual he didn't enjoy.

"I rescued him, much as I have rescued you tonight," Evrard pronounced.

"He did," Gray agreed, "and he took me to live in the Valley of the Lost Things."

"Valley of the Lost Things?" Rory puzzled. "Is that the official name of it?"

"It has always been a haven for those who have need of it," Evrard said.

"But not tonight." Gray's voice was stark and his face was full of concern. "Tonight, it was found."

Sudden guilt swamped Rory. It was his fault that Gray had temporarily lost the home he had built. Rory and his guard had led the soldiers there, which must have been his aunt's purpose in sending him in the first place.

"I'm sorry," he said, genuinely meaning it.

Evrard impatiently shook his mane. "Do not apologize for actions that were not your fault. It was inevitable the magical barriers would be breached; she has been trying for many years to find a way around them. You were a convenient pawn in her plan."

Rory straightened his cloak, brushing off some of the dirt remaining from the squash patch. "Then the soldiers were not looking for me?"

"They were," Evrard said. "But not only you."

"You should start at the beginning, you are only confusing him. Considering his reputation as one of the most intelligent in the realms, it can't be too difficult to explain," Gray said.

Evrard inclined his head. "My apologies, Prince Emory," he said.

"Rory," he insisted. "Please call me Rory."

"He won't like that," Gray inserted, "but make sure he doesn't choose to give you another name in its stead."

Rory glanced over at the other man. "Is that what he did with you? Is Gray not your given name?"

"It's his name now," Evrard said firmly, making it abundantly clear that part of the conversation was over. "We will start, but not at the beginning. There is no time for such a detailed story. Are you aware, Prince Emory, that your aunt has been making plans to usurp your throne?"

It was embarrassing that he had only just realized it, but at least he did not have to stand in front of the King of Unicorns and be surprised by that information. Rory nodded.

"Fontaine must not fall into her hands," Evrard said.

"How can I possibly prevent that? I have no army, no guard, no followers, no courtiers who would possibly be on my side." Rory had known the difficulty of his situation before, but was newly faced with it now, and the impossibility of it made his throat tight. But he'd made himself promises when he'd been hiding in the garden, and the most important had been that he would make different choices. Harder choices, Rory realized. That was what he'd really meant; that he would stop taking the easiest road, the road of least resistance.

It would not be easy to leave the throne to his aunt, most likely because she wouldn't want any loose ends, but it was certainly much harder to actually challenge her.

Add to that fact how few resources Rory actually possessed, and it took on shades of the impossible.

But Evrard did not seem much deterred. "You have more than you realize. You have me, and you have Gray," he boasted arrogantly.

Rory did not want to discount Gray—after all, he was rather in thrall to the man—but what use was a farmhand in taking back his kingdom from someone who had spent many years solidifying her position to prevent any opposition?

He was about to delicately broach this subject, when Gray entered the conversation abruptly, bluntly. "What," he declared harshly. "No."

"No?" Evrard asked.

"No," Gray said, his voice as resolutely hard as Rory had ever heard it. "No, I will not assist this silly princeling who let his aunt take over his throne." He turned and stomped off, headed into the darkest part of the woods.

Rory was left staring after him, completely lost as to his sudden change of mood. Also, silly princeling . . . that hurt more than he'd anticipated. And it hurt even more because it wasn't entirely untrue.