But Lothar twisted away from him. “I’m fine.”
Lorcan watched in silence as Lothar continued wiping the blood from his body, revealing all the injuries he’d received at Lorcan’s hands. Many were already closed or closing, aided by the ability all royals had to heal faster than other Draíolon, who healed quite quickly themselves. But there were two particularly bad ones that looked like he might need to bandage. “You know how much I hate doing this to you,” Lorcan’s voice was a low growl, some of the fury he’d had to bite down in his father’s presence seeping into his words.
“Father would have done worse.” Lothar wouldn’t look up as he finished tying a strip of leather around his abdomen, holding together one of the deeper slices, where Lorcan had turned the darkness he wielded into a whip and lashed through his brother’s skin and muscle, nearly splitting him open to his organs. He was just as good at it as their father, and it made him sick to think he’d done that. But there was also an underlying pride in knowing he was faster, stronger, more skilled than his brother—and that only made his guilt worse.
“You’d better hurry if you want to be presentable in less than thirty minutes.” Lothar turned away from Lorcan to pick up the rest of his belongings off the ground.
I’m sorry. The words were there, nearly spoken, the scent of his remorse bitter even in his own nose, but instead Lorcan turned and walked out silently, leaving Lothar alone in the training room, the floor stained with their blood.
“Lorcan.”
He whirled around to see his mother standing a few feet away in the shadows, as if she had been waiting for some time. Her white hair was arranged in an intricate, useless style around the crown that gleamed, even all the way down here, in the lower levels of the palace where the only light came from the fires and candles lit all around the training rooms. Her crimson dress enhanced the obsidian darkness of her skin. He’d inherited so much of his looks from her; only his silver eyes were a testament to the king’s paternity.
“Mother?”
Her eyes darted to his torso, to the few fresh wounds Lothar had managed to land and the many scars he bore from all the times before, and then back up again. “A meeting has been called,” she said quietly.
“Yes. Father said it is time. He received a message.” Lorcan spoke carefully, aware of the possibility that listening ears could be hovering nearby.
Abarrane, the Queen of Dorjhalon, nodded. “Stay strong, my son.” Her gaze flickered to the scar that bisected his left bicep, a particularly terrible wound his father had inflicted on him with a shadow-sword when he was still a youngling. “Soon you will be the one to leave your mark.”
When she met his probing gaze again, her eyes were so full of loathing and fury it made his own mirrored emotions that he worked so hard to suppress rise up, pulsing hot in his veins.
And then the door groaned open behind them. She quickly composed her expression into a calm, impenetrable mien before Lothar emerged.
“As my mother wills it,” Lorcan murmured with a bow, and hurried away before his brother could stop him.
I DIDN’T REALIZE YOU WERE CAPABLE OF RISING BEFORE THE sun,” Evelayn teased when the door creaked open behind her, already able to recognize the different footfalls and unique scents of many of her attendants and members of the court.
“It proves my dedication to you,” Ceren responded, flouncing over to the princess’s bed and throwing herself dramatically across it. “We never got a chance to talk yesterday, and I know you have training and meetings all day today … so I made the ultimate sacrifice.”
Evelayn laughed as she finished braiding her hair and bent to pull on the soft leather boots she preferred to run in. “It wasn’t that important … but your sacrifice is duly noted.”
Ceren sat back up, her flame-red hair sticking out on one side, wearing only her nightgown with a navy blue dressing gown hastily tied over it. If her mother knew she’d snuck through the castle at dawn looking such a mess, she would have probably dragged her daughter all the way back to her room to beat her soundly. “Not important?” She gave Evelayn a knowing look. “Well, then I guess I’ll just go back to—”
“He’s coming again this morning.” The words burst out before Ceren could finish her sentence.
Her friend smiled fiendishly. “Of course he is. Oh, he is truly smitten if he’s willing to keep chasing you through the forest every morning.”
Hope sprang up, but Evelayn shook her head. “He claims it is good conditioning. To keep him in shape for when he must return to the warfront, after he puts the Delsachts’ holdings and affairs all in order.”
“He’s only saying that because he’s afraid if he moves too quickly, he’ll scare you off,” Ceren disagreed. “Everyone knows how hard it is for you to open up. Well, to anyone besides me.” She grinned again, smug in her position as the princess’s only true friend.
“Everyone?” Evelayn echoed, the hope turning cold in her breast.
“Trust me.” Ceren stood up and walked forward to take Evelayn’s shoulders in her hands. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you—the way he constantly finds ways to be near you. Now go, before he wonders where you are.” She pulled Evelayn in for a quick hug and then pushed her toward the door.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“No.” Ceren turned and crawled under the sheets. “Your bed is far more comfortable than mine. I’m going to go back to sleep until you return and tell me how right I am.”
“But your mother … ”
Ceren just closed her eyes, ignoring Evelayn, who shook her head with a little laugh and shut the door quietly, leaving Ceren to rest while she hurried through the quiet castle to meet Lord Tanvir.
“Are you certain? You said they never found her body … maybe she survived?”
Tanvir grimaced, his gaze on the ground, making Evelayn wish she hadn’t asked. They sat side by side on a mossy boulder, the breeze that wafted through the trees already turning warm with the heat of the rising sun. His hairline was still damp, even though they’d been resting for a few minutes, catching their breath before they made the long run back to the castle. They’d gone farther than ever this morning. Another few minutes and they would have reached Diasla, a small city between the castle and the Sliabán Mountains.