Nineteen
Vivian was still looking in the mirror when the door opened and the Warlord stepped into the room. His reflected eyes met hers with a look that was anger and hunger and something else that defied naming. His long dark hair was neatly braided, and he wore a well-cut gray tunic, plain and serviceable.
If she didn’t turn around, if she kept him like this, as an image in the mirror, he would be only a fantasy, not a part of this absurd world that was re-creating her as some freak from a picture-book tale that could not be true.
One word sorted itself out from the babble and rang clear in her mind like a bell.
Destiny.
Vivian turned and made him real.
“What are you playing at?” He crossed the distance between them in a few long strides, his eyes raking over her. Vivian lifted her chin a little higher and held his gaze without flinching.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Let me be more clear. What exactly are you doing here? Why did you come?”
“I can’t see what business it is of yours.”
“It’s my job to protect the kingdom. You have brought trouble with you.” There was no mistaking the fury in his voice. He towered over her, and she took a step back but found her own anger rising to meet his.
“You brought me here. I don’t recall having a choice in the matter.”
“Your eyes have changed. What manner of woman are you?”
She chose not to answer.
He stretched one hand toward her shoulder, and she flinched, half-expecting a blow.
“I don’t hit women,” he said. His eyes flicked pointedly to her cheek, and her own hand lifted to cover the bruise.
“Explain,” he said. “Nobody survives the dragon poison.”
“Except me, apparently.”
“Tell me who you are and what you are doing here.”
She sighed. “My name is Vivian Maylor. I came—through a dream. Don’t all dreams lead to Surmise?”
His face remained implacable, eyes shuttered and cold.
“What does it matter to you? What do you want with me?”
“Because of you, a dragon is dead.”
“Your turn to explain. How is this a bad thing? They are vile creatures—”
His hands clenched and his voice softened, low and dangerous. “There is a law in Surmise. When a dragon dies, so, too, must somebody else.”
A flash of intuition turned her cold. “Who?”
He laughed, a harsh, strangled sound. “Whoever killed it.”
The pieces fell into place. “Oh, God. Duncan. You have to help him—”
“Nobody can help him.”
“Not that it matters to you—”
“Don’t speak of what you do not know, My Lady.” He swung away, pacing across the room to the windows.
“In case you’re wondering, I don’t understand about the scars,” she said to his back. “Or why I survived the dragon poison, or why my eyes changed color. It just happened.”
“Just like that. No rhyme or reason. And the gown? Was that an accident also? I hardly think that’s what was laid out for you to wear to dinner.”
“How could you possibly know what I was expected to wear to dinner?”
“I know the Chancellor, and the evidence is hardly difficult to spot.” He nodded toward the litter of gowns, and Vivian felt herself flush.
“I had no interest in wearing frills and lace and tripping over my own skirts. This gown suits me. It’s much more practical.”
“Practical? Is that what you call it?” He kept his back to her; she couldn’t read the tone of his voice, but he no longer sounded angry.
“What’s wrong with it?”
Poe picked that moment to make his presence known. He squawked and waddled close to the Warlord. The two inspected each other in silence for a moment.
“Will there be more of these—birds?”
“Penguins? I rather doubt it.” Even as she said it, Vivian realized that she had no idea. One penguin was so unlikely as to be impossible, and yet indubitably here one was.
The Warlord shook his head. “Forget the birds. Answer me—are you creating this look on purpose?”
“What look?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, My Lady. I’m not buying.”
“I like this gown. It suits me.”
“The gown, the eyes, the marks of scales on your shoulders. Are you a sorceress, My Lady?” His voice sounded weary, maybe even sad, but his face revealed nothing.
“A sorceress?” She laughed bitterly. “Sadly, no. Things would be so much easier if I were.”
“I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Why don’t you forget about me and go do something about the man who’s going to die because he tried to protect me?”
The words hung in the air between them. Something lethal flashed in the agate eyes. Stop, Vivian. Back away. But she was possessed by a mad rage, equal parts hurt, fear, and outrage, and she couldn’t seem to stop. She stepped forward, spread her arms wide. “Go ahead. Kill an unarmed woman in cold blood. That would make you a real man.”
His face blanched white, the scars livid slashes across his cheeks. He took a step toward her, then stopped. Held up a hand for silence. “Hush. Someone is coming.” He drew his sword and crossed to the door, silent and quick as a cat.
Vivian’s eyes followed the naked sword blade, resolving to guard her tongue in the future. She was in way over her head here without eliciting any extra and personalized hatred from a dangerous, sword-carrying Warlord.
“I don’t hear anything,” she said, after a few interminable breaths of waiting.
“Shh.”
It was not reassuring that footsteps in the hallway put him on instant high alert, but she didn’t dare to ask him what or whom he feared.
Then she heard muffled voices. The door swung open. One of the guards stood at full attention in the entrance and announced, “Prince Landon, My Lady.”
A man entered and stood blinking at her. Gray hair hung over his shoulders, clean but untended. His face was deeply lined and far too pale, as though he never saw the sun. His tunic, a dull bruised color that might once have been purple, was torn and tattered, the pale flesh of his belly visible through a hole the size of her fist. His feet were bare, and black with dirt. He bowed and smiled, but the smile was grief and loss, laid over an unbearable weariness that cut her to the heart.
As if he didn’t wish to presume, he stayed close to the door. “Good evening, My Lady. I’ve come to take you down to the feast.” He nodded at the Warlord. “Lord Zee.”
“You’re—the Prince?” Vivian struggled with her voice, unsteady despite her best attempts.
“Appearances are deceiving,” the Warlord said. “You would be wise to note that, My Lady.” He bowed to the ragged man at the door, a deep bow, made with evident respect, and made his exit.
Vivian’s eyes followed him. The Prince coughed, gently, drawing her attention back. “Shall we go, then?” He held out his hand.
“I would prefer not to.”
“That makes two of us. However, I fear we have been summoned. Refusing is not an option.”
Vivian opened her mouth to make a caustic remark, then shut it. This man was so obviously in pain. She didn’t want to add to it. “But you’re the Prince,” she said finally.
“And you are—” His eyes ran over her again. She’d underestimated him. The gaze was intelligent and sharp, and she knew he was absorbing the color of her eyes, the marks on her shoulders. A spasm of pain crossed his face. “I’m not sure what you are, My Lady. You look rather like her in that gown, and yet not like her at all.”
His was not an evil face—many of the lines were those of kindness—but a chill went over her at what she saw in his eyes in that moment. Death. She’d seen it in the Warlord’s eyes, too, but despite his aura of violence, the Warlord would think twice about killing a woman. This man, if he felt it warranted, would not hesitate.
She took a step back and away from him. Nervous, her hands smoothed over the hips of the black gown, and her right encountered something unexpected: a hard object, long and narrow, trapped between the fabric and her skin.
Holding his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t notice, she explored the object with her hand. “If I were to ask you what you mean by her, you will tell me you can’t talk about it, right?”
She found a pocket, set seamlessly into the fabric. Her fingers curled around what she found there.
“I ask you straight out—are you a sorceress, My Lady?”
“Why do you people keep asking me that? I have no magical powers and I certainly don’t plan to hurt anybody.”
“Then why have you dressed as one?”
Vivian stared at him. “I found the gown—it was in the closet.”
“You found it. Just like that.”
Her hand clenched around the thing in her pocket, familiar and comforting, fitting perfectly into her palm. “The Warlord was just asking the same questions. I give you the same answer. I found the dress. I like it. It fits.”
“It fits, yes.” He sighed. “You have the look of magic about you, but not like her. Perhaps the difference is an absence of evil. We will hope.”
He squared his shoulders, apparently having come to a decision, and held out a hand. “Shall we go? The Queen is not tolerant of tardiness.”
Vivian breathed a sigh of relief. She was inclined to like this prince and had enough enemies already. But when she took the hand he held out to her, she saw something that stopped her cold. Circling the fourth finger of his left hand was a fine gold band set with tiny bloodred stones.
“What the hell are you doing with my mother’s ring?”
His face went white to the lips, his eyes stricken.
She advanced on him, shouting. “You bastard! What have you done with her?”
“I? Nothing—”
He’d totally fooled her with that beaten-down act. She had the stiletto out, the blade flicked open, before he could finish the sentence. “Don’t lie to me! She’s here somewhere. You know where she is. Tell me now or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?”
He had drawn his sword. No longer a ragged, beaten lunatic. His face was alight, every line of his body awake and at the ready. “Put the knife away before one of us gets hurt, and listen to me.”
“You’re a liar, and I will not listen to a word you say.”
“You will.” His voice was pitched low and intense. “You will listen now, and stop this idiocy before the guards come in here.”
He advanced and she retreated. Her only option was to throw the knife, too small to be of any defense against a sword. If she was lucky and killed him, she’d have the guards to contend with. And if she killed him she’d never find out what he’d done with her mother.
And then Poe abandoned her. She’d been aware of him in her peripheral vision, watching from the sidelines. With a little squawk, he waddled across the room and stood in front of the Prince, facing her, flippers spread in a defensive posture.
“The last thing in the world I want is to hurt your mother,” the Prince said. “The ring is mine. Think. Hers would never fit my hand.”
“You could have resized it.”
“Please—I beg you not to make this mistake.”
Vivian looked from him to the penguin, who had managed to get a disapproving look onto his face. “You’re threatening me with a sword.”
“I thought I was protecting myself.” The Prince took a step back, sheathed the sword, and held both hands up in a gesture of peace. “No world exists in which I could harm Isobel’s child. Do with me what you will, but I beg you—give me time to explain.”
“I’m listening.” Her hands were shaking. Every breath hurt.
“Your mother and I exchanged rings, long, long ago. Please. If you can save her, I will do anything in my power to help you. But if we are to do that, first we must go to the feast. And the guards must not hear any of this.”
He glanced at the door and then back at Vivian.
Trust nobody.
And yet she found herself wanting to tell him everything. Maybe he could help her find Jehenna. Maybe he would know something about the key. Hell, Poe had sided with him.
Caution prevailed. Not now. Not yet.
She closed the knife and dropped it into her pocket. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
The Prince nodded and offered her his arm. She took it.
“Shoes.”
“What?”
He glanced pointedly at her feet. “You’ll need shoes.”
“Oh, shit.” Esme had never returned with the sensible shoes. Which meant the only thing available to her was a ridiculous pair of high-heeled sandals concocted out of velvet and lace. They lay on the floor where she had discarded them.
“Can’t I go barefoot?”
“No, My Lady.”
“But you—”
“It’s not possible.”
“But I can’t walk in those.” Her voice came out plaintive and fragile, and she felt herself on the verge of tears. Over a pair of freaking shoes.
“I’ll help you.”
Nothing else for it, then. Plopping down on the floor, gown and all, she picked up the instruments of torture and shoved them onto her feet.
“What of your bird? Will he stay here?”
“Don’t ask me. He apparently does whatever he pleases.” Poe looked at her, all innocence, and then hopped ahead of them to the door.
Swallowing all of the questions still clamoring to be asked, Vivian reached up her hand to allow the Prince to pull her to her feet, then wobbled beside him out into the corridor, Poe following at their heels.