A Kingdom of Glass (A Novel of The Garia Cycle)

A Kingdom of Glass

A Novel of The Garia Cycle

By Blake Smith

Cover Design by Sarah A. Hoyt

Copyright 2015 by Blake Smith

Digital Edition

License Notes

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Prologue

The Courts of Mayerling in the East Morlans, in the fortieth year of the reign of King Reynard:

The antechamber to the catacombs was dark and damp, with only a single flickering torch to chase away the night. As usual. He grimaced as he shut the door behind him, wondering if all alchemists and fortune-tellers insisted on living in such grimy conditions. The rest of Mayerling was bright and shining; why did Master Dominicus have to pick the most inhospitable spot in the palace to practice his art?

There you are, Reynard’s voice rumbled out of the shadows. I began to think you weren’t coming.

He’d flinched when the king spoke and gritted his teeth to stop any undignified exclamations. Once he was sure he wouldn’t show his surprise, he said, I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I was momentarily detained. By a nagging wife, he added silently. Out loud, he said, Are you certain you want Master Dominicus to predict your future today? As I recall, he examined the stars for you only last week. Surely things couldn’t have changed so much in that time?

King Reynard emerged from the darkness, the light playing oddly about his face. Perhaps not, he said. But I like to know what’s happening in my kingdom. You tell me what my people are doing. Master Dominicus tells me what mischief the gods are making.

Very well, then. Shall we go? he asked, offering his arm to the older man. It wouldn’t do for the king of the East Morlans to slip and injure himself.

The king liked to have someone accompany him whenever he went to see Master Dominicus. Perhaps he feared the alchemist. Perhaps he simply needed a steady hand to lean on as he negotiated the narrow stone steps of the passageway.

Whatever. It didn’t matter why the king wanted company, he decided as they felt their way down the stairs. What mattered was that Reynard usually chose him to go, and that was enough to remind Master Dominicus of his duty, which was to predict whatever he was told to predict.

The king had grown superstitious over the years, relying on astrology and increasingly arcane magic to guide him. It was a golden opportunity for an intelligent courtier such as himself. Master Dominicus may have some true skill at reading the stars, but his real talent was in taking the payments offered to him and providing predictions in accordance with his paymaster’s wishes. He’d been offering gold to the alchemist for over ten years, and it had been more successful than he’d ever dreamed. The Secambris had finally sold their summer house to him, terrified of the rumored ghosts in its walls- ghosts summoned by Master Dominicus. The king had unceremoniously abandoned his mistress and was making eyes at Lady Rosamond, who was empty-headed and biddable, unlike that bitch Agnes de Lis. And if he played this right, the king would seek his advice even more once he’d heard his impending doom.

He didn’t always know exactly what Master Dominicus would predict, or how he would carry out his plans, but he was an expert at turning a situation to his benefit. He knew it. The alchemist knew it. Even Reynard knew it, but was so paranoid by now that he would trust anyone who had the brains to agree with him- or pretend to agree.

The stairs narrowed at the bottom and Reynard had to duck down or risk cracking his head on the lintels. Careful, Your Grace, he murmured, holding the torch before them as they negotiated the treacherous footing.

The king scoffed. I’m not in the grave yet, my lord.

There were a thousand ways to answer that, but he only said, Yes, Your Grace, because they were outside Master Dominicus’s chambers and he’d let go of the king’s arm so he could hammer on the door.

There was no response for a moment, then the door swung inward, so silently it must have been magic.

The room wasn’t any brighter than the rest of the catacombs, though it should have been. At least there was a window set high into the wall. But any moonlight it admitted was lost in the sickly sweet fog of incense from the alchemist’s fires.

The alchemist himself sat half-buried behind stacks of paper, books, and mysterious magical instruments whose function he couldn’t even guess at. Master Dominicus was a small man, black-haired and not nearly as old as people expected him to be. His dark eyes were the brightest thing in the room.

Good evening to you, Your Grace, Master Dominicus said, propping his elbows on the desk.

Reynard nodded shortly in lieu of a greeting. I want you to star-gaze for me, he said. Tell me what’s in my future.

Yes, Your Grace. The alchemist fished a few heavy pieces of parchment out of one stack and began examining them, muttering to himself and occasionally measuring an angle with double- and triple-pronged instruments.

The perfumed smoke was giving him a headache, and it was a long time before Master Dominicus looked up. No one said anything for a moment that seemed to stretch forever.

Well? What do you see for me? the king eventually demanded.

Another pause, and there was pity in Master Dominicus’s deep eyes when he said, Your Grace, you’re in the winter of life. I don’t see calamity in your future, but you should know that your time among the living is growing short.

Reynard’s brow furrowed. Can you tell me when I’ll see my departed sons again? he asked. Was that sarcasm or anger in his voice?

It was hard to say, but the question itself was a perpetual lament. Out of Reynard’s seven legitimate children, four had died young. His obsession with the occult had begun shortly after Prince Guyomme’s death and intensified after Prince Ansel’s horrific demise.

Master Dominicus knew those details of course, and he was smart enough to refrain from giving an exact answer. He pulled the star chart toward him and looked at it, or pretended to, for some moments. Eventually he looked up through the fug of swirling smoke and vapor. Your Grace, it’s difficult to say exactly when your soul will break free from your body, but I’d venture to say that you have another full year with us, and perhaps a little more. See this angle, here? he prompted, pointing at the intersection of two lines among the gibberish. It suggests that you’ll leave us forever in the autumn after this one.

Silence fell in the room. He looked down at the chart, and after a moment, Reynard copied him. Eighteen months. And you didn’t know this when I asked you to star-gaze for me last week? the king asked. His hand clenched like he would crumple the chart in his fist.

Master Dominicus deftly moved the paper away. Certainly not, Your Grace. I would have told you immediately. This chart shows the position of the stars at the time of your birth. That hasn’t changed, of course, but the stars that I see in the night sky have moved, and the combination of the two provides me with new information.

Luckily, Reynard seemed to accept that explanation, which was more palatable than the truth- Master Dominicus had received his orders only a few days ago. He was pleased to see that the alchemist had taken the first opportunity to plant the idea of death in Reynard’s head.

The king was silent and pensive as they left the catacombs. If I’m to die in a year, I need to start planning the future, he said when they parted at the top of the stairs.

Yes, Your Grace.

***

Reynard sent for him after two days. He went to the king’s chambers openly, not bothering to hide his destination. Nor did he apologize when he nearly ran into that red-haired Lalander girl two corridors away from the king’s rooms. She offered a polite curtsy and a murmured, Excuse me, before she fled, and he briefly entertained the idea that she was trying to usurp Lady Rosamond’s place before recalling that the king had never shown any interest in little girls. Too bad. It would have been another thing to hold over his head.

There were three servants lurking about when he entered the room, and he waited in silence while the king dismissed them. Once they were alone, Reynard said, without preamble, I’ve been thinking about that alchemist’s prediction. I want you to listen to my plans.

Yes, Your Grace, he said, though he had no intention of remaining silent if the king began talking nonsense.

I’ll be buried in the royal crypt, but you knew that. I’ll leave further instructions with the head chamberlain. Sir Amaury will know what to do. As for the queen, I’ll specify in my will that she should be taken care of. Her dower properties will revert back to her control. As for the rest of the kingdom… Reynard ran his hand through his hair. Hanri will be king after me. There’s not much I can do about that; he’s eldest.

Either of your sons would be a worthy king, he hinted. And Prince Artur is more popular. More malleable, he added in his mind.

I know. But Hanri has some support from my wife’s family.

He gave a snort of disgust. Foix only supports Hanri to spite his sister. And, anticipating what the king would say next, Hanri might have some friends in the Lalander camp, but Sir Seyer is on Prince Artur’s side, and he’ll be the power in that family once his uncle dies.

Reynard shook his head. It should be Hanri. I don’t like it, but the eldest son has inherited for the past three hundred years in the East Morlans. To upset that now would be a catastrophe, especially with that bastard Lazlo Skirgata ruling over Garia.

He couldn’t argue with that. Well, he might quibble over the Garian king’s parentage as a matter of accuracy, because Vaclav and Marta Skirgata had most certainly been married. But King Lazlo had been a thorn in his side for nearly twenty years. Even now, the peace between the neighboring kingdoms was tenuous at best. The stability of the Morlans would collapse if her next king was a divisive figure, leaving the field wide open for a Garian invasion.

So he needed to have some influence in Prince Hanri’s faction. That was obvious. He wouldn’t allow his family to fall from grace just because the wrong man sat on the throne. He hadn’t wanted this responsibility- it should have belonged to one of his elder brothers- but since he had the family fortunes under his control, he was determined to add as much as he could to their safety and power.

Prince Hanri’s quite young, he said, absently tracing a scratch on the table with one finger as he watched the king intently, but he’s old enough to be married. The right wife might stabilize some of the factions.

Reynard shot him a knowing look. Are you thinking of Lady Irina?

He pretended to dither for a moment, as if he hadn’t considered the idea until the king suggested it. Irina’s only thirteen, Your Grace, and a bit flighty for her age. She’d be very subject to outside influences- possibly the wrong outside influences. Your son’s wife would need to be a steady point in the court- someone the courtiers could seek out for stability. But I do have another daughter.

Who’s been fostered in a partly Garian household since she was five years old, Reynard pointed out. And I’ve heard she’s rather strong-willed.

She’ll come to court completely friendless, he argued. We’ll be able to mold her into a princess; she’ll naturally seek guidance from her mother, and we’ll choose her household carefully, so she associates with different families. And it won’t matter that she hasn’t been educated in politics; she won’t need to know how to rule a kingdom, only how to deal with people. Women are good at that, he added, thinking of his wife.

The king was silent. He waited. Reynard disliked ideas that he himself hadn’t thought of; any new suggestions were usually met with skepticism until he’d had a chance to think about it and adopt the idea as his own.

So he waited. He could be patient.

Finally, Reynard said, All right. Write to al-Hattin; tell him that the fostering agreement is over. His daughter will be home in two months and he should send your daughter to the Tower in exchange. You can meet her there and bring her to court. If she proves to be adequate, we’ll betroth her to my son.

He hid a wince. Your Grace, with your permission, I’d like to send my wife to meet my daughter. I’d prefer to stay at court. And I’d like to make everyone think the betrothal is certain; Zarafina might be more obedient if she thinks she doesn’t have a choice.

Reynard mulled it over and shrugged. As you like. I’ll send a detachment of my royal guards to meet them, and I’ll tell Hanri to provide some of his men from Barançon. That should satisfy your wife’s need for ceremony.

Thank you, Your Grace.

They spoke of more normal things for a few minutes before the king dismissed him. And a good thing it was, because he found it difficult to concentrate on anything but his success. Had it really been that simple? All he had to do was ask, and Reynard had decreed that their children would marry. After years of unsuccessful maneuvering, there would be an alliance between his family and the royalty of the Morlans. It was enough to bring a smile to his dour features as he left the king’s chambers.

Chapter One

The Alcazar, on the border between Garia and the East Morlans, six weeks later:

Hurry up; we’re going to be late! Samina hissed at her.

Zara growled as she finished tying her hair back and threw her tan scarf over it. I should chop off my hair and be done with it, she grumbled. What do you think Lady al-Hattin would do if I cut it as short as yours?

She’d probably fall over from the shock, Samina said, picking up her arrow bag and bow. I had to permanently lose a comb in mine before she let me wear it short, remember?

Zara did remember. Vividly. Her friend had curly, kinky hair, like most people from the Kopár Vídek. But they lived in Garia, so Samina had tried to copy the other girls’ styles for a few years, until Zara was ten and Samina eleven.

Six years ago. It seemed longer. At least Zara had learned how to properly wield scissors since then. She’d given her friend that first memorable haircut, and the results had been, well, interesting. In her defense, she’d been thinking about extricating the missing comb from Samina’s hair, not about the end result.

Sorry about that, she repeated the apology for the thousandth time. By now, it was a joke between them.

Samina shrugged as she shut the door behind them. I’d probably still have long hair if you hadn’t cut it so badly that they had to shave off the rest of it.

You did look funny, Zara said, grinning. At least it grew back a little.

I’m glad I amuse you. And aren’t you supposed to be keeping watch? Samina hinted.

We’re still in the house. We’ll hear someone coming long before we see them, Zara said. Keeping watch is for when we’re trying to get out of the castle- since you wouldn’t let me ask Piroska for an invisibility charm. Not for the first time, she wished the house had windows on the east side, where it was built into the castle wall. But the wall was a solid mass of stone that defied her occasional wish to escape. So they had to sneak down echoing stone corridors, across wide courtyards, and through creaky doors, always on the lookout for passing servants or the sentries that patrolled the fortress.

I don’t know why I let you talk me into this, Samina griped good-naturedly, peeking around the corner. There was no one there.

It’ll be fun, Zara said, because she was nervous and didn’t want to show it. Sneaking out was easy; sneaking into an archery contest was harder.

Well, yes, but we’re going to get in so much trouble.

Don’t be silly. We look like we’re going to practice shooting, far away from everyone else like we usually do. Once we get out of the castle, no one will look twice at a couple of boys going to the contest, Zara said around a yawn. She usually drank tea in the morning to wake up faster, or coffee if she could get it, but there was no time for that this morning.

She stretched and rubbed her arms to get the blood moving, thankful for her tunic and overrobe in the early morning cool. The Alcazar and the surrounding city sat on the edge of a desert, so everyone dressed in loose, flowing cottons and silks, wrapping scarves over their heads to protect themselves from the sun. Zara had long since grown accustomed to seeing only faces- or, occasionally, only eyes- whenever she went outside.

That anonymity would keep them safe on their adventure. The men-at-arms in the al-Hattin household were holding an archery contest that morning and Zara had a mind to try her skills against real soldiers. Girls weren’t allowed to compete with the men- they had their own trials- so Zara and Samina had to be disguised.

At least Lord al-Hattin wouldn’t be there. Their foster father was sharp-eyed and clever, and would certainly notice two of his many foster children mingling with his soldiers. They weren’t prisoners at the Alcazar, but the girls were taught to stay away from the boys, especially during weapons practice. Any distraction on the training fields could be dangerous.

With a little luck, they would pass through the city unnoticed, shoot in the trials, and return to the castle before they were missed. Zara gripped her bow tighter as they trotted down the steps of the house and crossed the castle courtyard. No one took any notice of them, as she’d hoped, and they darted under the portcullis in the blink of an eye.

Success! They went quickly- Zara in the lead, Samina just behind her- walking along the cobbled streets as though they belonged, weaving around drunks in the gutter, striped awnings over shop doorways, and the occasional stray dog. It was early enough that there wasn’t much traffic, only a few people on foot or horseback.

Zara kept a sharp eye out for anyone paying too much attention to them, but she was still a little surprised when a young man riding a gray horse stopped in front of them, blocking the way.

Boy! Can you tell me where to find the castle? I have dispatches for Lady Sofia al-Hattin, the courier said, speaking in Morish.

Zara’s heart leaped into her throat when the man spoke to her. You’re on the right road, she replied in the same language, once she was sure her voice wouldn’t give away her fear. Just carry on for another few hundred paces and you’ll come to the gate. Stay on the widest road and you won’t get lost.

The man waved his thanks and spurred his exhausted horse up the road. Zara watched him go. What was a messenger from the East Morlans doing at the Alcazar? Morlanders weren’t supposed to come into Garia without permission, and the Alcazar had been a Garian fortress for nearly two hundred years.

I didn’t know they made horses that ugly, Samina commented, watching the man ride away.

He was wearing Morlander colors, Zara noted, even as she recalled their mission and started walking again.

Maybe he’s one of Lord al-Hattin’s men from Bagra? But then he’d be wearing red and silver, not green and white, Samina said, answering her own question.

And he’d know to speak in Garian at the Alcazar, Zara said.

Maybe he’s from King Reynard, Samina joked. Reynard Marcomanni was the king of the East Morlans. His kingdom began a few miles away, near the al-Hattin’s Morlander fortress at Bagra, but Reynard himself lived at the Courts of Mayerling, hundreds of miles to the north.

He might as well be from the moon, Zara said derisively. King Reynard doesn’t care about this part of the world. In all these years, I’ve never heard of him visiting Bagra. Not like King Lazlo. She was disappointed that she’d never met the king of Garia, even though he came to the Alcazar every few years. By all accounts, he was a very odd person, famous for turning up in random places with no warning whatsoever. People swore up and down that he used magic to move so quickly, and Zara half-believed it.

She liked meeting odd people, but there was no time to think on the wayward Garian king, because she and Samina were passing through the main city gate. The trials were held outside the city walls, as it was the only open space large enough for target shooting. She wound her way through the scrub brush to the officials’ tent, wishing she was riding Razi. Garians didn’t walk when they could ride and she could shoot from horseback as well as on foot. The men-at-arms occasionally competed on horseback, but Zara had purposely chosen to go to a dismounted contest. Garians being what they were, they’d recognize a horse before they knew its rider. But she still wished she was riding.

The boy’s contest? a stooped and wrinkled official asked her at the entrance to the tent.

Yes, sir, she replied.

That line over there, he said, pointing with the staff he’d been leaning on.

Thank you. She joined the line and Samina followed silently.

Zara knew she might just barely pass for a young boy who hadn’t yet grown his first beard. If no one was paying attention or saw her hair. It was long enough that she could sit on it, and Garian boys kept their hair cut short.

But they couldn’t pretend to be adult men; their voices would have given them away in an instant. So Samina was pretending to be Basil the son of Nikos, and if anyone asked, she lived in a village just south of the Kuzai River.

Zara had become Kazimierz the son of Ján. Remembering her name was easy; it was the Garian version of her little brother’s name. The real Casimir Ardelei lived in the East Morlans with their parents, poor boy. Zara couldn’t understand why anyone would want to live in the Morlans. From her own sparse experience, it was much more stuffy and formal than Garia. She would never have a chance to sneak into an archery contest in that kingdom.

Name? a harassed-looking clerk asked her once she was at the front of the line.

She gave her name, careful to speak in a low voice, softening her sharp southern accent.

The clerk wrote her alias on a piece of parchment as long as his arm as she paid a copper coin to the man counting the entry fees.

No one commented on her appearance, so similar to everyone else, and Zara began to relax as she walked over to the range. They would start by shooting from ten paces away, everyone in a line aiming at a dozen painted wicker targets. That was child’s play for Zara. Everyone who hit the target would move to the next round, where the targets were fifteen paces away, and so on until only one person was left.

Zara lined up next to Samina and breathed a sigh of relief. They’d bypassed the first obstacles, and now everyone would be so focused on the contest that no one would notice a couple of girls among the fifty or so boys stringing their bows and preparing to shoot.

The scheme went perfectly. Until the very end.

Zara saw it coming with growing horror. She’d never expected to shoot so well and only noticed the danger when the squires hauled the targets to sixty paces away. At that distance, there were only five people left, including her and Samina. If either of them won the trial, everyone would want to know their names, and they couldn’t hope to hide their faces under such intense scrutiny.

The call came up, Loose! and Zara raised her bow, aiming automatically then shifting her hand a few inches to the left so the arrow would narrowly miss the wicker target. She released her breath, then the bowstring. But the slightest breeze caught the arrow and sent it winging through the air to hit the outer edge of the red bulls-eye.

Oh, no. She inched closer to Samina. Shoot first, then run when you get the chance, she murmured.

Her friend’s dark eyes were wide with panic, but she nodded. I’ll meet you at the castle gates.

Samina missed, just barely, which put her in fourth place. Zara smiled, proud of her even as their careful planning unraveled around them. The applause and cheering from the small crowd of onlookers should have been the most wonderful sound in the world, and she felt a momentary flicker of shame at duping her neighbors.

One of the older boys slapped her on the back with a jovial congratulation, but Zara wasn’t listening. She’d lurched forward at the unexpected blow and her scarf, already half undone, slid down onto her shoulders.

She seized the cloth and drew it back over her hair, but it was too late. Everyone within ten paces had seen her long brown braid, and by the looks on their faces, they were just as surprised at the trick as she was stunned by her unmasking.

Afterward she realized that she should have played it off as a joke. Sure, girls weren’t supposed to shoot against the boys. But there was no law against it. If only she’d had the forethought to laugh and explain, everyone else might have had a good laugh with her, and the incident would have passed off smoothly.

But her wits had deserted her. Laughter and surprised exclamations rang in her ears, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. But there were a few cries of, Grab her! Zara didn’t wait around to see if they wanted to mock her or harm her. Uncomfortably aware of the press of men around her, she bolted, using her smaller size and greater agility to slip through the crowd, some of whom hadn’t noticed what was happening.

She didn’t know when she lost her scarf; it must have happened before she darted through the city gates, stumbling as the footing changed from uneven dirt to smooth cobbles. The sentries’ incredulous looks were forever branded in her memory, but she ran on.

She realized Samina was a pace behind her when they were halfway back to the castle. The streets were empty of pursuit, so she slowed to a jog. Her lungs were burning, not from the exertion- she could run that far in her sleep- but from fear.

I’m sorry, she said in between gasps.

Me, too. I panicked, Samina admitted.

When they came into the castle courtyard, Lady al-Hattin was standing in the arched doorway like a statue, arms folded and feet braced. Zara skidded to a halt, stumbling when Samina crashed into her.

It didn’t even occur to her to flee her foster mother’s wrath. She’d spent eleven years learning to obey Lady al-Hattin; she couldn’t set that aside in an instant. Besides, Samina was behind her, blocking the way.

Inside, Lady al-Hattin ordered, looking furious. Zara’s heart sank. How had she known?

But it was obvious, she realized, mentally kicking herself for being so stupid. Why else would they be running up the road to the castle, carrying their bows, having disappeared without a trace so early in the morning? They trudged up the steps of the house and followed Lady al-Hattin down the corridor to her office.

No one said a word until they were inside and the door swung shut. Then Lady al-Hattin seized them both in a rib-cracking hug. Are you hurt? Either of you? she asked.

Both girls shook their heads. Zara almost wished she’d been injured, just so she didn’t have to bear her foster mother’s disappointment.

Whose idea was it? Lady al-Hattin prompted.

Mine, Zara admitted, scuffing her toe on the stone floor.

I should have guessed, Lady al-Hattin said dryly. How well did you shoot?

Second.

Fourth.

A smile flickered over Lady al-Hattin’s face, but all she said was, Samina, go to your room and stay there until I call for you.

Samina nodded silently and went out of the room. Zara shivered at the bang of the heavy door. Lady al-Hattin sat down behind her desk and gestured Zara into a chair. She lowered herself onto it, legs and hands trembling. She hated to be scolded.

Why? Lady al-Hattin asked.

I thought it would be fun, Zara said in a small voice.

The girls’ contests aren’t enough for you? That’s why we have them, so you won’t be tempted to enter the men’s contest.

She shrugged. They’re always the same. I win, or Samina does. I wanted to see if we could beat the men-at-arms.

And you didn’t think it might be dangerous? That a stranger might try to take advantage of you, and you’d have no one to help you?

I had my knife, Zara argued.

Yes, and I know you’ve been told where to stab and how hard, Lady al-Hattin said dismissively. But I also know you were taught that the best way to defend yourself is to stay away from danger in the first place. There’s a reason I ask you to stay away from the men. Most of them wouldn’t harm you, but they’re all much stronger than you and if they wanted your money- or anything else- they could take it very easily.

I was with Samina; we were safe together, she protested.

Two young girls, wandering the city, on foot, without telling anyone where they were going. You didn’t even bring horses so you could run if there was trouble, Lady al-Hattin pointed out. "Zara, I trust you to think before you act. What you did today was not thinking before acting. I was looking for you this morning and when I couldn’t find you, I worried."

Lady al-Hattin was normally strict but fair, and something about her tone made Zara ask, Did something happen? She’d never seen her look so grim, not even when Zara, age fourteen, had bullied the castle blacksmith into teaching her to shoe a horse.

A courier came, bringing dispatches that I wanted to share with you. But you were missing.

Dispatches? For me? An image of the Morlander messenger floated through her memory.

"Dispatches about you, Lady al-Hattin corrected. From King Reynard, your father, and Lord al-Hattin."

Zara swallowed hard, wracking her brains to recall what she could have done to merit so much attention. What did they say? she asked quietly, so her voice didn’t shake.

There was a pause. You’re being summoned home, Lady al-Hattin said, just as quietly.

Home is here, she blurted out.

The Morlans, then. To court.

Court? You mean, Mayerling? she said, too shocked for anything more articulate.

Yes.

Why? Can’t I stay here?

Lady al-Hattin smiled faintly. I’m glad you don’t hate us for taking you away from your family.

Of course I don’t hate you. I love it here. And I thought I was supposed to stay here until I’m eighteen. Then the fosterage agreement is over. And I have to figure out a way to stay here on my own, she added silently.

I know, Zara, but your father asked King Reynard to re-negotiate the agreement.

It was unheard of. Treaties were treaties, and the agreement had been part of Zara’s life since she was five years old. Why would they do that?

Another pause. Zara braced herself for bad news. Your parents have arranged a marriage for you, Lady al-Hattin explained.

Already? she demanded. I’m too young for that.

I agree, but there’s some sort of upheaval at court. The royal alchemist seems to have predicted that the king’s going to die in a year, so everyone’s making new plans. Your father probably wants to see you settled as soon as possible. But your mother included a note in the dispatch, Lady al-Hattin added. She says they’re giving you a year to settle in at court. She thinks the wedding will be sometime next spring.

Well, that was a little better than she’d feared. In the back of her mind, Zara had always known that her parents would choose her husband, just as parents did for their children all across Garia and the Morlans. An arranged marriage wasn’t the problem; the timing was. And possibly, the other half of her marriage. Who do they want me to marry? she asked, hoping her prospective bridegroom wasn’t completely repulsive.

You’re going to marry the lord of Barançon, Lady al-Hattin said. When Zara looked blank, she added, Prince Hanri. King Reynard’s eldest son.

She blinked, stunned and sure she looked like a gaping idiot. It had to be a joke, someone’s elaborate prank. They want me to be a princess?

I can see why you’d be surprised, her foster mother said dryly. But, yes, they want you to be a princess.

Zara had a thousand questions, but somehow, the shock of the news had driven them away. She sat mutely for a moment, her mind whirling, and Lady al-Hattin didn’t press her.

Have you ever met the prince? she finally asked.

No, but he’s about your age and I’ve never heard anything bad about him, Lady al-Hattin replied.

That wasn’t a ringing endorsement, but Zara accepted it for the time being, still shaking her head in disbelief. She needed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Mother, may I go? I need to think, she said quietly.

Lady al-Hattin nodded and Zara rose to leave. Before she could escape, her foster mother was by her side, hugging her gently. Zara returned the embrace, blinking back tears.

When do I have to leave? she whispered.

Three days. You’ll go to the Tower and meet your family there, then travel to Mayerling.

She nodded against Lady al-Hattin’s shoulder. How am I getting there?

There’s a trade caravan leaving that morning. You’ll go with them. Lord al-Hattin told me to send some of our knights to escort you.

She nodded again, as if she understood. But she didn’t, not really. It was so much to take in. Only an hour ago, she’d been rejoicing in her adventure. Now a new adventure was looming, and she’d gladly give it up.

Lady al-Hattin understood. Go and rest for a few minutes. Wash the dirt off your face. Think. Let everything sink in. If you have any questions, ask me later.

All right, she said, and turned to go.

She was nearly to the door when Lady al-Hattin called her name. She looked back. This isn’t a punishment, Lady al-Hattin said quietly. I know it feels like it. But it’s not.