1. Loch Ethereal

Chapter 1

Loch Ethereal

S uffering through a belated marital idyllmoon with an unbearable princeling, on the lake that had once belonged to her family until it had been stolen by his, was a perverse sort of torment, even for Mariel Ashdown.

She leaned onto the balcony overlooking the dawn mist wrapping Loch Ethereal below. The fog made it impossible to see from her vantage point, but one of hers was almost certainly waiting below, just as they’d promised when she had told them where she’d be forced to spend the week after her husband’s “triumphant return” from months away at sea.

The mossy, thatched banks had disappeared, trailing into and blending with the dense morning air. The once-tranquil lake embodied the sinister authority of its subjugators, a warning and a reminder of the thin veil between past and present. It was far too cool for a swim, but she was already imagining herself stripping away her layers, recalling the icy jolt of first contact that would remind her she was still—unlike almost everyone she had ever loved—painfully alive.

Erran would still be peaceably sleeping, like all men with no conscience with which to burden themselves. He was no doubt exhausted from his most recent naval conquest, which had kept him away for the entire three months of their arranged marriage. He’d already been planning the campaign when their fly-by-night union had come about, and it had been too late to send another in his place. At least, that was what his mother kept saying, as though Mariel was nursing a broken heart in his absence. It had been all she could do to nod solemnly and play the doting, mooning wife.

She hadn’t seen her husband at all since the wedding, actually, until four days ago when he’d shown up with his too-pretty, hangdog face, and a scandal following him that made her disgust for him an easy part of the act.

There was still time to make her rendezvous and be back before the attendants—every one of them a spy for his father—sounded the morning meal bell, upon which she and her princeling husband would sit in rigid silence and pretend they weren’t secretly dreaming of killing one another.

Mariel tore her eyes away from the lake and started down the hall. To her surprise, there were no attendants there, nor any following her down the stairs. She stepped into the balmy morning without encountering a single soul, which seemed as suspicious as it was fortuitous, though she lived perpetually on edge, always anticipating danger. It was the life she’d chosen, one of secrecy and shadows and peril. But her only witnesses at the early hour were the crickets and songbirds slowly waking the world up.

Still, sneaking off, right under the nose of her “naval hero” husband, was reckless even for her. No one could know who she was when the sun disappeared in the evenings, but if Erran found out...

He couldn’t. Hers wasn’t the only neck that would swing.

The dew in the air coated her skin from the moment she stepped into the lush forest. It painted the leaves so shiny and green, they seemed spun from silk. The Southerlands were known for endless tropic coastlines and salt-hardened traders, but the Lake District was a hidden gem, stretching between the Rutlands’ seaside territory in Whitecliffe all the way to the foothills of the Easterlands range in the north. Many wealthy barons owned cabins along the twelve lakes, but not because they’d purchased the land legitimately. Any records claiming otherwise had been signed by the same people who plundered through life like the conquerors of old.

The hardest lesson Mariel had learned, and early, was that while the wealthy could buy anything they desired, their real thrill came from stealing it.

Mariel paused at the end of the worn path to look back at the garish monstrosity that had been built in place of her modest childhood home. The juxtaposition of memory and reality fueled her vengeance and gave her the last bit of resolve needed to continue on.

She followed the tall reeds lining the banks. Frogs croaked from thatches of pads, which broke up the soft mossy algae of the otherwise-still surface. How she and Destin and sweet Angelika had played and played as children, skipping rocks through the thick stew of colors... even then, they’d known their time was stolen. They’d read it in the increasingly haunted stares of their mother and father as they’d slowly starved to death.

Soft light painted an orange band across the grass. She closed her eyes and looked up, breathing deep. Home. Not the way it had been, but still hers. Land didn’t recognize gold. It recognized like. Love.

A fluttery whistle snapped her attention back. She ducked low and listened. When it came again, she cupped her hands over her mouth and sounded her own in return. Once. Twice.

Reeds cracked underfoot. She stood slowly, trying to guess which one of her friends had come for her.

Her heart skipped when she saw it was Remy.

Or, as the barons they frequently robbed knew him as, the infamous Tactician.

The corner of his mouth pulled into a slow grin. She matched it as she moved closer, knowing, even before he held out his arms for her, where she would land. When he locked around her, she allowed herself the briefest interlude of vulnerability, releasing a breath into his warm chest. He pulled back, still smiling, and brushed the gesture along her forehead with a sharp inhale.

“The Flame lives,” he jested.

“Aye.” Mariel snorted and broke the embrace. She scouted the area once more, but they were alone. “Barely. Was touch-and-go for a while.”

“How much time do you have left on your sentence?”

“Four days.” She crossed her arms. “Though days with that one are measured in far longer terms than the ones we know.”

“He was bound to come home eventually. Unless you were hoping he would drown?”

“Even I’m not so cruel,” she retorted, though she’d be lying if she claimed she’d never thought about the prospect.

But if the princeling had died at sea, she’d never get what she needed. Months alone with his family had produced no valuable intelligence. He was the key. She knew he was. If not, it would mean she’d married him for nothing, and she couldn’t live with that.

Remy scratched a hand through his shoulder-length blond hair. “Has it been so bad?”

“He’s been avoiding me ever since his idiocy in Warwicktown. He thinks... that I care about his foolishness with Yesenia, which is absurd. Better he believes it though. Makes it easier to stay in character.” She tilted her head back in the frustration she couldn’t show to anyone else. “I ken the attendants have reported to the steward we haven’t been sharing a room though. Feckin’ spies, the lot of them.”

“Aye, but at least you’re home, for a spell,” Remy said, glancing around with a poignant grin. “I try not to think about how much I miss Mistgrave... this lake...” He shook his head, then tipped a nod behind her. “Whose idea was this atrocity, anyway?”

“The palatial cabin?” She rolled her eyes. “You’ve seen Goldsea Spires. You know how high the Rutlands aim.”

“And always fall short. They don’t ken the soul of a place. The blood running just under the soil, the heart pumping life to the fish, the elk-kind, the crickets and frogs...” He seemed to have more to say, but his lips pursed in disgust. Unlike the rest of her friends, Remy and his sister, Augustine, were technically from the Easterlands, from a town just north of the Southerlands border on the other side of the line from Mistgrave. But they’d spent enough time with Mariel and the others to adopt a softer affectation of the rough salt-and-sand accent associated with the Southerlands. Like hers, it was a composite of both worlds and, for the work they did, useful for blending in.

“Three months of him away has given me plenty of time to think, but I confess I wasn’t ready for him to come back. He’ll be expecting a wife when he settles, and I know what I signed up for when I agreed to this, but so far...” Mariel groaned. “Ah, I didn’t sneak out here to talk about the useless princeling, so please tell me you have something new about the private auction we can use.”

Remy rolled his neck, revealing the ink she’d given him right at the edge of his collarbone: a black sword piercing a cloud, their group’s insignia. Beneath it was a map and quill, his personal signature. She’d been hesitant when he’d asked her to do it. If he were captured, it was as good as a signed confession he was a member of Obsidian Sky—and a proud one. But Remy feared a cage more than a scaffold. “Augustine learned there’s a dealer organizing the thing, but no name. No location yet either. Alessia is making her tavern run over the next few nights, to see if she can get any drunkards to spill more, but I ken those organizing the event are deliberately keeping the details close to their vests.”

“Hmm.” Too close. Mariel’s own father-in-law was the architect of the whole thing, and he’d mentioned the auction exactly once in her presence. She drummed her fingers against her biceps. “And still no date?”

“Could be next week. Next year. Whoever knows, they’re keeping the details close.”

“Nay, not next year. They won’t wait that long. It’d be like offering infinite spirits to a man lost to the drink and expecting him to pace himself.” As nice as it felt to be close to someone she loved, she challenged fate with every minute she lingered. If anyone saw them, they’d assume she was having an affair, which, while safer than the truth, would only hurt her objective. “If we don’t find out when and where?—”

Remy’s hands shot out and gripped her cheeks. “We won’t let what happened to us happen to others. Now that the heir apparent has returned, you’ll get what we need, and those robber barons will tuck tail and slink back to their keeps and castles, humiliated and penniless. It will change the way they do business, forever, and they’ll finally know we’re more than just a nuisance to swat away.” He was quiet for a moment. “And then you can be done with all of this and come home to us.”

Preventing more commoners and gentry from having their land stolen in an illegal, private auction for the nobility was Obsidian Sky’s principal goal, and the plan was to intercept the gold and dump it into the sea, where it would belong to no one. The outlaws had agreed it was the only way to ensure it never fell back into the hands of the powerful. But Mariel couldn’t stop thinking about how that much wealth could change everything . It could feed entire villages. They could do so much more for the people than they’d ever done with their midnight heists. The others were afraid to dream big, but they’d lost sight of the very reason they’d formed Obsidian Sky, to quash such powerlessness and keep it from ever returning.

Even Remy wasn’t ready for that conversation. She didn’t have long to get him there, but it was more time than she had available that morning.

Mariel lowered her eyes and nodded. “I should go. The silk stocking will be wanting his breakfast soon.”

He swept in and kissed her—brief, chaste, but near enough to genuine intimacy to remind her how cold her existence had been since the light had gone out in her life... since her mother and father and sister had died, leaving her and Destin to choose whether they’d suffer as their loved ones had or risk everything by fighting back.

Perhaps she could have made a love match, or at least a tolerable marriage, had she opted to sit back and let others continue to run roughshod over them, generation after cursed generation.

But Mariel Ashdown, known as the Flame to her enemies and Shadowstep to her admirers, would spend whatever minutes, hours, days, or years the Guardians had planned for her in fearless rebellion.

No indecisions.

No regrets.

She joined her forehead to Remy’s, exhaled, and nodded.

Erran knew Mariel was hiding something from him, and while he shouldn’t care, he damn well did.

As he watched her slip through the hall and down the steps like a vengeful sprite, clearly pleased with her duplicity, he wanted nothing more than to call out to her and watch her expression dissolve when she realized she’d been caught. But then he’d never know where she was headed.

There was no love lost between them. How could there be when love had nothing to do with their cobbled-together, last-minute handfast? The past few months at sea had been... a reprieve from his new reality. From the marriage he had been given no choice in. But he was her husband, like it or not, and he had a right to know what she was up to—and a responsibility to protect her from herself.

Not that she wanted or needed his help. Behind her painted-on smiles, her loathing was palpable.

Erran supposed that was his curse. He’d loved one fiercely independent woman and had become shackled to another, the second an unhappy consequence of the first.

He cleared the porch and stepped between the tall reeds. Fog coated the tops, obscuring the two paths she could have taken. But he’d learned to track from his grandfather Rehor, and Mariel hadn’t bothered to cover her footprints. If nothing else summed up their farce of a marriage, it was her thinking him too pretty and stupid to be a problem.

He trudged east, dodging dewy stalks. He’d never liked Mistgrave, or any of the lake district, unlike the rest of his family who treated it like a secret stash of splendor. Being so far from the sea unmoored him, made him feel as though the earth was closing in on all sides, his death knell in the form of shrilling crickets and croaking frogs. He already missed his crew and ship, Perseverancia, and yearned for the day when he’d assume command of his father’s fleet and spend his days at sea, beneath the swelter of hot days, falling asleep to the gulls’ cries.

As he rounded the east bank, he heard the voice of a man. Mariel’s drifted on the end of whatever he’d said, followed by her long, drawn sigh. Erran slid his boots to cover the squish and inched closer, until he spotted Mariel’s long, dark waves through the reeds. Her head was tilted up at the man holding her, someone Erran didn’t recognize. Whoever he bloody was, he was looking at Mariel the way Erran had always looked at Yesenia.

A dark clench formed in his belly. It wasn’t jealousy. His father couldn’t have picked a more incompatible pairing for him than the stony-eyed, mercurial Mariel Ashdown. But the trip to Loch Ethereal was a not-so-gentle nudge to push Erran and Mariel to finally consummate their union and bring an heir. His father had eyes everywhere. Her dipping out to meet a lover was more than foolish. It was dangerous.

After brushing Mariel’s hair away from her brow, the man tweaked her ear and dashed off, disappearing between a thicket of bowing trees.

With a distraught look at the sky, Mariel raked her fingers down her cheeks.

Erran eased a hard breath through his nose and marched over. She whipped her head up in alarm, but he wasn’t giving her a chance to speak first. “Have ye lost your mind then, Mariel?”

Irritation flashed across her flushed expression, but humor was quick to supplant any evidence of it. She smirked with her entire face in a startlingly swift recovery that she must have assumed was convincing. “It’s fine when you want to go chasing skirts, Errandil, but if I have a congenial meeting with an old friend, I’ve lost my mind?”

No one, not even his blessed mother, called him by that atrocious name, not until Mariel had learned it at their wedding and decided it was an enjoyable way to get under his skin. “Willnae even dignify that with a response.”

Mariel scoffed and tried to brush past him, but he side-stepped into her path, flipping her annoyance to disgust. “I realize this is a challenging concept for a Rutland to embrace, but I’m nay your property. I’m allowed friends.”

“Friends.” Erran flung his arms out with a dry laugh. “Oh, aye? Friends? Kiss all your friends then?”

“I donnae answer to you either. And, eh, you can drop the phony salt-and-sand brogue around me. Your grubby mates aren’t around to judge you for being soft, and it won’t impress me.”

“Impress you?” Erran was speechless. Humidity clung to his skin, but her accusation hung heavier. He’d always switched between accents without even thinking about it, because he was sensitive about his privileged Whitecliffe upbringing, which was far more refined than what most of his mates had experienced to the north and west. The Rutlands were one of the few families who neither looked nor sounded like they were part of the Southerlands at all. If one really wanted to insult them, they made the inevitable comparisons to the gold-laden tree-dwellers in the Easterlands who lived better than kings. “And why in the bloody Guardians would I ever want to do that?”

“Aye, well, that’s better. You’re more tolerable when you speak with the gold pacifier in your mouth, tucked right where it belongs.” She tried again to get past, but he held his ground. “Think I won’t stab you just because your family bought me?”

Erran had no doubt Mariel would stab him, but a conversation needed to happen, away from the ears and eyes of his father’s staff. “Listen to me, Mariel?—”

Mariel’s hands shot to her hips in a snapping gesture that cut him off. Her eyes flashed with a dozen competing reactions, so fast he could read none of them. She was both cornered doe and raging bull, engaged in a silent battle with herself.

“We didn’t buy you, all right? Our marriage was brokered like any other. And I’m no more keen on it than you are, but do you not remember why we were sent to this lake to begin with?”

Mariel burst out laughing. “Because you were, what, two days back from sea, and you couldn’t keep your spindle away from a married woman?”

“I did not...” Erran grimaced, bracing. He’d already learned that there was no such thing as a simple conversation with her. “Nothing happened between Yesenia and me. You know that.”

“Because she can’t stand the sight of you anymore. Chose a tree-dweller over one of her own, which...” Mariel whistled. “Even I can feel the sting of that .”

He bristled, drawing rigid. “I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. Not even you.”

“Who’s asking you to?” Mariel threw up her hands, incredulous. “Why did you follow me?”

“Had a sense.” Erran chewed the inside of his mouth, once more preparing for her inevitable fire. “Seems I was right to be suspicious.”

Her eyes rolled. “Mark it in your diary.”

Erran dragged his hands down his damp face with a groan. “We both want the same thing, you know.”

Her grin was murky, but she kept her response to herself.

“To be left alone? To do as we please? To not hear another of my father’s loaded lectures about duty?”

She laughed and gestured around. “Aye, well.”

“You know how we get that, don’t you? By playing nice, for feck’s sake. By... at least pretending we wouldn’t like to chuck each other into the White Sea and be done with it all. And by not sneaking about at dawn and meeting strange men, which will surely be news to my father by, oh, noontide today.”

Mariel’s unctuous grin faded. “No one followed me.”

He gaped at her. “I’m standing right here .”

“No one whose tongue I’ll have to cut out for informing on me.”

She was right; he was the last person who’d tell Rylahn Rutland she was up to nothing good. In that, he might actually be her ally, not that she’d see it that way. “Who was he, anyway?”

“None of your concern,” she retorted.

“If he accidentally gets you with child?—”

“Unlike you, I’d never even entertain dodging my vows, no matter how I... feel.” Her eyes pinched, narrowing. “And there wouldn’t be such pressure, would there, if your chin-wagging sister hadn’t spread false rumors about us expecting.”

Sessaly was as much a thorn in his side as Mariel’s, but her false declaration that Erran and Mariel had a bundle on the way was more than an irritation. When Erran had to confess to his parents it was not true—and how the only thing they’d consummated was their aggravation for each other—the disappointment had come down like a landslide on the dunes. For Guardians’ sake, it’s not that hard to bed a woman, Erran. You’ve done it before! Rylahn had roared, in front of everyone, before storming away.

If only you knew you’d found me the most disagreeable bride in all the Southerlands, Father.

“Sessaly is a pain. I’ll give you that,” Erran said after a wary pause. Sunrise cast a pale orange hue over the lake. Others would be looking for them soon. “But do you not... Do you not realize we can’t avoid this forever?”

“Managing your family is your job, not mine.”

“They’re your family now too.”

Mariel tossed back a cackle. “Oh, aye, is that why my brother is always invited for supper?”

“Perhaps if he could hold his drink ?—”

Mariel lifted a silencing hand, but her ear was turned toward the lodge. “Someone’s out there.”

Erran turned at the sound of shuffling and muted voices. It was Calvan and Eleanor, the married caretakers. All staff in the house reported to them, and they reported everything of note straight back to Steward Rutland.

There was no good reason for Erran and Mariel to be whispering angrily in the reeds at dawn, and he could already imagine how it would be relayed to his father, right after they’d explained the “blissful couple’s” failure to share a bed.

Mariel glanced at him. Her eyes moved in time with her thoughts, no doubt calculating the perfect rationalization, just as he was. But there was only one that would appease his father.

As soon as he spotted Calvan’s bright-red hair rounding the bend, Erran snaked a hand around Mariel’s back and yanked her against him. Her eyes glared first, the rest of her catching up in a body-wide clench. He locked his mouth to hers, hushing her indignant groans with louder moans of his own, counting the seconds until he could release her and put the unfortunate moment behind them.

“Ah, pardon us, sir. Ma’am. We didnae intend to intrude on such a private interlude, but we’ve had a surprise visit from the stewardess, and she’s waiting for you both in the dining room.”

Erran nearly swallowed his tongue. Mother. Great.

“Thank you, Calvan,” Mariel said sweetly, murder flashing in her irises when she turned them on Erran.

“Very well. You’ll come straight to the dining room?”

“Aye, right behind you,” Erran called, still rooted by Mariel’s death stare and the inevitability of a lecture from his mother. “I’m sorry, all right? It was the only thing I could think of to cut off suspicion?—”

Mariel cut him off with a stinging slap. “Don’t you ever, ever do anything like that again, for any reason.” Her nose flared with a slow breath. She seemed to be forcing calm upon herself. “Nay... unless... until ... I say you can.”

“Forgive me.” Erran laid one hand on his cheek, raising the other in penitent surrender. “Won’t happen again.”

“And why would they have been suspicious to begin with? Did you even think...” She trailed off, casting her gaze toward the lake. “I ken it’ll keep your mother and father pleased for a spell though.”

“For a spell,” Erran agreed, still recovering from her reprisal. “But we need to talk about this. About having bairns. We can’t avoid it forever, no matter how much we might want to.”

“You wanna talk about it? Here you are then.” Mariel’s tongue lashed over her lips. “I don’t give a Guardian’s fig what your mother and father want. I need time.” Her shoulders lifted in a defeated sigh. “Now, what are we gonna do about your mother? She’s here to spy, aye? You didn’t ken she was coming?”

“Nay, I didn’t.” Erran glanced up at the mist-covered lodge, shaking his head. “Maybe the staff told them about the separate beds.”

“Don’t recall us piling on top of each other being part of the marriage contract.”

“Well, officially...” Erran might have smiled, if his belly hadn’t already soured from the strained exchange.

“Your parents don’t even sleep in the same bed. Not even the same apartments.”

He shook his head. Even discussing simple things with her took great patience. “They did when they were making bairns, and as far as they know, that’s what we’re doing.” He flexed his hands at his sides. “I didn’t ask for this marriage either, but there’s no getting out of it. We have to find a way?—”

“Did you not hear me when I said I wasn’t ready?” she replied, thunderous. “Or are you in the business of taking everything you decide is yours?”

“Can I finish my sentence?”

She turned her nose up and waved, scoffing to the side.

“We have to find a way...” He continued slowly, as though dealing with an errant child. “To show them we’re making an effort. If we walk in there with you looking like... like...”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to stab me.”

She grinned.

“Right, so if you can’t control that , then they’re going to make our lives very difficult. I heard Father talking to Steward Law about having attendants stay in our bedchamber with us to make sure we...” Erran twisted his mouth.

“That’s an archaic, revolting tradition no one follows anymore.” Her brows furrowed. “He wouldn’t dare.”

“He might. The man’s already bloody arsed with me over the Yesenia thing. Thinks I’ve shamed him before all the Southerlands. The forsaken son.”

“Only shame in what you did is not fighting harder for her,” Mariel said, surprising him. “Is it any wonder she ran off with a tree-dweller? At least the Quinlanden lad was willing to go where he wasn’t wanted for the love of her.”

“Is there...” Erran squinted, tilting his head and shaking off the wound she’d intentionally inflicted. “Is there something that me... that I , personally, have done to you that causes you to treat me like a feckin’ dog?”

“You disparage dogs with such a comparison.” Mariel sized him up with a look so full of vitriol, he felt compelled to take a step back. “Time to put on a fair show for your mummy.”

If Hestia Rutland had married into any other family, Mariel might have had a fondness for her.

She had an oddly cheering presence, with her bright-orange shawls, elaborately plaited hairstyles, and thick gold boots under leather gowns that were equally dressy as utilitarian. Rumor had it that under those billowy skirts, she always had two daggers, one strapped to each thigh, and that when she was still a Leecaster, she had welcomed occasions to use them. She had an unexpectedly gregarious laugh that made Mariel wonder what she must have been like before she’d joined the wealthiest family in the Southerlands.

But the woman sitting across from her in the dining hall had been a Rutland for longer than she’d ever been a Leecaster, and the way she held the narrowing in her eyes, as she watched Mariel and Erran in agonizing silence, was something she’d clearly perfected in her married years.

“Are you not going to eat, Mother?” A note of anxiousness emphasized Erran’s careful words.

“Trying to decide if I have an appetite,” Hestia replied smoothly. Her eyes shifted toward Mariel. “I’m sure you’re aware it has come to my notice you requested a separate bed from your husband.”

We’ll be getting right down to it then.

Mariel glanced at Erran, then admonished herself for even considering they were allies. “Aye, well?—”

“It was me, Mother,” Erran said, cutting in. He swallowed a sip of his drink. “I’ve been feeling poorly since I returned from Warwicktown and didn’t want it to pass to Mariel as well.”

“Poorly how?” She stared at him, clearly unconvinced.

Mariel held her breath, waiting to see how the exchange played out.

He nodded at his belly. “Nothing you’d want to hear about at mealtime.”

“Or any time,” Hestia said with a sour grimace. “Are you feeling better now?”

“On the mend.”

“Then I’ll inform the staff that you and your wife are ready to cohabitate.” Hestia traced one finger along the edge of the tablecloth before leaning in. “Unless it’s not what you want?”

It was Erran’s turn to look at Mariel. She offered a light, reluctant nod, still chiding herself for her inability to control her temper outside with him. She’d lost her cool, and even considering her role as the “wronged wife,” she’d gone too far.

Sharing a bed was the last thing she wanted , but keeping the Rutlands happy with her was the only way to keep them from looking more closely at her interest in their business dealings.

“Of course it is,” he said with a grin that deepened his dimples. Mariel buried her face in her bowl of fruit and silently cursed every Guardian, including the sixth one.

“Then I’ll see it done.” Looking far more pleased than she had when they’d started their meal, Hestia turned again toward Mariel. “And how is your aunt, pet?”

There was no aunt. “Sick Aunt Anna,” Mariel and Destin’s father’s supposed aunt, was just her excuse to disappear in the evenings.

The best way to lie was to tell the truth, so Mariel answered just as she would have if Hestia had asked her how her midnight heists were going. “As well as can be. Every visit I ken she gets stronger, though it’ll be some time before she no longer needs me at all.”

“You have a kind heart, Mariel. I do hope she’ll understand that when you have bairns, though, she won’t see you near as much.”

Mariel forced a smile. “I ken she will.”

“Perhaps your brother could take over helping her?” There was no malice in Hestia’s expression, but just because she didn’t say what she was thinking didn’t mean Mariel didn’t hear it just the same. We both know he can hardly take care of himself, and we both know why.

“One day, perhaps,” Mariel said tightly.

“If not, I’m sure we can find someone suitable for her. We certainly won’t let her suffer.” Hestia divided her attention equally between them. “I’m afraid I’ll be leaving just after morning meal. Your father needs to travel to Port Worthing this afternoon to sign some documents relating to the auction. I’d forgotten my promise to the stewardess that I’d share some of my lace patterns with her, so I’m joining him.”

Mariel perked, pretending her thrall was for the fruit on her plate. An overheard conversation between Erran and his father on their handfast night had been her first awareness the auction even existed, but with Erran gone for months, she’d been relegated to the background of important matters.

“Port Worthing?” Erran asked, after chewing a mouthful of meat—tidily, with his mouth closed and a napkin against his lips.

Mariel almost laughed imagining him try to fit in with her friends as they passed a sloppy mug around the campfire and tossed picked-clean bones of rabbits and foxes at each other across the flames.

“I thought they were holding it in Sandymount?”

“Port Worthing is where they’re performing inventory and storing the gold until it’s time.”

Port Worthing and Sandymount, Mariel thought, her heart racing. It was far more than she had any right knowing, so it was important her disinterest was convincing. But when she tried to take a bite, she was so focused on the conversation, she missed her mouth.

Erran waved his fork. “I still don’t understand why we’re having this auction. Or why we’re entitled to sell the land at all when we don’t rightly own it. Are we starved for gold?”

Hestia sent a cautious glance Mariel’s way. She folded her hands atop the table. “If you have questions, Erran, your father is the one they belong to.” With a sigh, she turned her eyes toward the window. “You know, I can see why he wanted this place. Have you ever known such true quiet?”

Mariel watched, amid a glimmer of hope, as Erran processed his mother’s words. He’d come so close to seeing the problem when he’d reminded his mother the auction was nothing but stolen goods. But he only nodded and returned to his food, leaving Mariel deflated and foolish for thinking there might be more to him.

“Mariel, will you join me briefly in the gardens before I leave?” Hestia asked, though it was not a question at all.

“Of course, Stewardess,” Mariel said, nodding low in the appropriate reverence for her mother-in-law. Acting was not a skill Mariel had expected to collect on her journey, but it had proved as useful as any other she’d honed, especially now that she was no longer looking in on the enemy’s lair but was right in the center of it.

“I’ve told you, pet. Mother will do.” Hestia smiled. “Shall we then?”

Mariel followed the woman down a small staircase and out a narrow door leading to one of the few things that remained intact from when Mariel had run and played there: her grandmother’s garden. But though it hadn’t been plowed over, neither had it been tended, and as a result, it had become overgrown and unruly. Only time kept it from being the next victim of the Rutlands’ plundering.

“The adjustment hasn’t been easy on you, has it?” Hestia asked as she dodged a thatch of thorny weeds. “Marriage is often so hard in the early days, especially for women.”

Mariel wasn’t sure what answer the stewardess was looking for, what words would satisfy her. “I’ve endured harder times.”

“You have, haven’t you?” Hestia’s sidelong smile was genuine, warm. “You’ve lost so much, Mariel. Indeed, more than most your age ever should. Now, you may have been conscripted into this family on account of my son’s unseemly behavior in Warwicktown, but I do want you to feel like you’re one of us. To feel at home in all our homes. Is there anything I can do toward this effort?”

Hestia had been nothing but kind to her, but the woman’s smooth manner served as a reminder she could withdraw her warm cordiality with a flick of her wrist. She might have started her marriage in similar circumstances to Mariel, but she was all Rutland now. “Nay. But thank you.”

“I realize you were brought up in a very different world than I was. Women had to work and rear their bairns. But you’ll have a dozen governesses at your disposal, should you desire them. You needn’t give anything up, as long as you’ve done your duty. And while we as women have many tasks and errands and responsibilities, we have but one duty, no?”

Mariel hadn’t yet addressed, even to herself, the pressure from all sides to bear Erran’s children. It had always been her hope that she’d get what she needed and she could simply... disappear. But if her mission failed... if something went amiss and they were forced back to the start...

No. She couldn’t even consider it.

“And my son is a most comely man, with many achievements already behind him and far more ahead. Marriage into our family has afforded you a level of comfort and access you’d never have known otherwise.” Hestia stopped and looked directly at her. “You’re fortunate is what I’m saying, Mariel. More than you seem to realize.”

Tears of anger sprang into her eyes. Fortunate? And whose fortune were they standing upon at that very moment? Whose fortunes had built every brick... weaved every tapestry in their gilded life? And how could Hestia Rutland even say such words when she knew she was standing on stolen Ashdown land? Was she so blind to her husband’s own faults that she’d lost any semblance of perspective? “Have I done something to compel you to say these things?” Mariel couldn’t help asking.

Hestia balked slightly. “It’s rather what you have not done, dear.”

“We’ve been married three months, and he’s been away for all of it,” Mariel replied, her defensiveness mounting. Careful.

“But now he’s home. And a child will never happen at all if you refuse his bed,” Hestia answered smoothly. “There are no whispers that do not return to my ears. Oh, love.” She sighed. “You could do so much worse, but you’d never do better.”

Mariel recoiled, stung. “Stewardess?—”

“You think me cold and unfeeling, but how I wish I’d had a woman in my life to counsel me when I married Rylahn. Might have saved myself years of heartache.” She smiled sadly. “He’s a good man. They both are. If you had to give up a love of your own in this venture, remember that Erran did too.”

“There was no other love.” Her mind spun with how quick-footed Hestia was, and how unprepared Mariel had been for it. Erran’s foolishness about Yesenia in Warwicktown had actually been a blessing, for it had given Mariel the opportunity to play the wronged wife, which was a fair cover for her disgust of him. But Hestia was telling her she saw past the act, for what it was. Guardians help them all if she ever learned why. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“You think I don’t know we stand on ground that once belonged to your family? Or how it came to belong to ours?”

Mariel held her breath. She hadn’t expected any of them to address it so boldly.

“Expecting equity in this life is a path to great unhappiness, Mariel. This system was here for thousands of years before us, and it will outlive every last one of our descendants. Lamenting the unfairness of life is like spitting into the air to assuage a drought. You are not entitled to the disappointment that follows.” Hestia swept a hand along Mariel’s brow, brushing stray hair back. “You’re prettier than her, you know. Yesenia. There’s a warmth in you that was always lacking in her. When his heart settles, he’ll see it. He’ll see he’s lost nothing really, nothing that couldn’t be gained another way.” She drew herself straight. “But we cannot wait for a man to come to his senses. Erran has always understood duty and will do his, if you show him you are willing.”

Not for one second did Mariel believe Hestia would ever be someone she could show her heart to, but it was harder that the woman was, in her way, being kind. She was trying to help Mariel see the future didn’t have to be filled with despair. But Hestia was a product of the system she spoke of, shaped and molded over the years to accept the unacceptable. Mariel could never, ever let that happen to herself. “I understand what’s expected of me.”

“And perhaps, should the bedchamber whispers grow warmer, I may be able to persuade my husband to return this property to the Ashdowns. To your brother, who is now the head of your family line. The last Ashdown male.”

Mariel missed a step, her boot catching in a tangle of morning glories. She glanced over and found the stewardess watching her like a hawk. In all her dreams and goals as the Flame of the Obsidian Sky, Mariel hadn’t considered her ancestral lands could ever be theirs again. She’d given up on that fantasy, focusing instead on how to keep such a loss from happening to others. If she were to put her own needs first, hers and Destin’s, there was nothing more important than the Ashdown land coming home. It was all they had left of themselves.

But this isn’t about me, or Destin. If I ever forget that, I will have regained my heart at the expense of my soul.

“Consider my words,” Hestia said with a patient smile. “But not for too long, pet. The future of this house rests upon your shoulders, and you’ll find others will not be as understanding as I am should this ice not thaw.”

Hestia’s retinue was parked at the entrance to the lake road that would take her southwest to Port Worthing. Erran waited for her there, watching for signs of her vibrant attire through gaps in the forest.

“Darling.” Hestia appeared suddenly from the side and swept the air by his cheeks with phantom kisses. “Thank you for seeing me off.” She looked past him, through the forest that covered any view of the quiet lake. It was so unlike the ambers and ochers of the Golden Coast that he could believe it was another world altogether. “It is lovely out here.”

Erran recalled what Mariel had said that morning, about the land being stolen, but his mother had made it clear questions should be directed to his father. “How long will you be in Port Worthing?”

“A night. Two at most.” Hestia brushed her hands down his arms with a fussy sigh. “You must win her over, Erran. The way things are now are not sustainable. Your father is worried, and I’d say he has good reason to be.”

Erran shifted his gaze to the ground, shaking his head. “I am trying. Mariel is... She’s challenging. But I’d never force myself upon her.”

Hestia looked almost stricken. “Of course not. No one would suggest that.”

“All I’m asking for is some patience and understanding.”

Her smile was placating. “Love, actions have consequences. Throwing yourself at Yesenia like an undomesticated lapdog was unwise, and her rejecting you, while prudent on her part, turned a mild scandal into a public humiliation. Rutland men do not grovel. At least not outside the privacy of their bedchamber.” Her arms lowered back to her sides. “You have the Rutland charm and more than your share of the good looks. I advise you to use them.”

He pressed his lips tight to keep himself from saying that Mariel was immune to any so-called charm he might possess, because it would only make matters worse. His mother had no interest in excuses or explanations. Her sage advice had once been a central part of his life, but as he’d aged into adulthood, she’d started turning his questions around on him. Asking What do you think I should do? only garnered a What do you think you should do ?

“You should know,” she said carefully, “your father will announce his retirement soon. His leg has gotten so much worse while you were away, and he worries it’s starting to erode his esteem amongst the men in his fleet. I’m going to tell you what he will not, because he wants you to figure all of this out yourself and not be pressured by the prospect of avoiding punishment. The admiralty should be yours, Erran. It’s your birthright. But he worries the men won’t respect your leadership after all that’s happened. You know what they’ve been calling you, the forsaken heir. He’s been quietly preparing Aliksander Law as a potential replacement for you, should you not... sort the matters of your house.” She leaned in close. “We cannot let that happen, love. Aliksander will be a part of this family soon, but he is a Law , not a Rutland, and his and Sessaly’s son will be a Law. I say again, it is your birthright. Your future son’s birthright. If your private matters are not soon resolved, you will lose everything and gain nothing for it.”

Erran’s blood rushed away from his face. His father had made plenty of insinuations but had never come out and said the admiralty could ever go to someone else. It was a Rutland operation—a Rutland legacy, built over the past two centuries. Not only had he been waiting his whole life for the honor but he’d been actively training for it since he had been six years of age. He’d spent years at sea. There was nowhere else he felt more like himself. More whole. Without the admiralty, he had nothing else to drive him. Nothing else to sustain him.

Not even Yesenia had meant as much to him.

“How do I fix it? She’s... She’s still sore about what happened with Yesenia, which was nothing except humiliation on my part. I’ve been naught but kind, no matter how cross she is.” His voice cracked, a weakness his father would have criticized and his mother would likely reprove. Asking at all was missing her point, that he needed to resolve his own trouble, for if he could not, how could he ever lead a fleet of forty-seven ships? Eight thousand men?

But she surprised him when she brought a hand to his cheek with a tender cupping. “My darling, Mariel is hurting. She has lost so much, and her grief prevents her from seeing what she’s gained. It’s not enough to be kind... I sense she is isolated and feeling as though nothing at all is familiar to her. And then you disgrace her reputation and yours? Of course she’s sore. If her own husband does not see this, does not care, then one cannot really blame her for being cross, can they?”

Erran lowered his gaze back to the ground. He thought again of Mariel’s bizarre claim the loch had once been her family’s. Of all he didn’t know about her. “You’re wrong if you think she could love me.” Or that I could love her.

“And what, my dear, does love have to do with marriage?” Her mouth pulled into an impudent grin.

He couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “You and Father aren’t the best example, if you want to make that point.”

“Love came after the children, after our duty was behind us and we were free to consider our own needs.” Hestia reached for her carriage door. “I must go now, or we’ll have to stop somewhere else for the night. You’ll find your way, Erran, because you must. But your first obstacle is accepting that marriage is a business transaction, not an arrangement for chivalrous romantics like yourself. Consider what Mariel most wants , what gain would be worth the sacrifice of her pride, and you may find the answer is closer than you realize. You don’t need her to love you, or to love her in return. If that is your aim, you will fall woefully short.”