To Secure a Scion: The Annals of Alytha, #1

By Will Rivard

When Vale, a young uplander shepherdess, is driven from home by the king's soldiers, she finds herself forced into an unwanted adventure. She soon learns of a rumor matching her description with that of the heiress of the throne, who was believed dead. The jealous king's depravity turns everything Vale left behind to ashes. With no path but forward, she finds motivation in vengeance and joins a rebel faction others have gathered in her name. The king wants her head, Vale wants justice, and her allies want a puppet on the throne.

Can Vale dig through the secrets of her past and uncover who she is before the king's soldiers deprive her of the future she was destined to have? Follow her daring escape and her quest for revenge.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Rivard
• Release date: Oct 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989406906

Book preview

To Secure a Scion

Published 2023 by Will Rivard

Edited by Tanya Grenier

Front cover design by Jeff Brown

Copyright © 2023 by Will Rivard

Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Will Rivard.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Visit www.willrivard.com to join will’s newsletter, view maps, and reference a comprehensive glossary.

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About the Author

Will Rivard is the author of Chronicles of Candlelight, which begins with An Occasion to Mourn published in 2020. An Occasion to Mourn serves as a prequel for both this series, The Annals of Alytha, and Chronicles of Candlelight, which follows events in the north. The two storylines are intended to be read concurrently, though events can be followed independently with no loss of structure or understanding.

You can contact Will through his website or by following one of his pages (Facebook, Amazon, BookBub). Be sure to join his mailing list for updates on new releases, a free copy of An Occasion to Mourn, artwork, and more. Your comments and questions are always welcome.

For my daughter.

You are my muse.

Contents

Prologue

1.Omens

2.Daymares

3.The Promise of Adventure

4.Ill Reports

5.A Good Turn

6.Broken Peace

7.Betrayal

8.Catch the Scent

9.Fear

10.Three Sheaves

11.The Wrong Potion

12.Fishing for Rats

13.The Only Course

14.Us or Them

15.Hunted

16.A Warning Ignored

17.Turmoil

18.Become the Prey

19.Desire and Dread

20.A Variety of Truth

21.Blessed Encounters

22.Running From Fate

23.The Enemy's Hand

24.A Daughter's Fear

25.Trespassers

26.The King's Host

27.A Stolen Life

28.Solemn Promises

29.Another Farewell

30.Blood for Blood

31.Reflection

32.Plans

33.The King's Chargers

34.Run Fast and Far

35.Promises and Plans

36.A Touch of Magic

37.The Enemy in the Storm

38.Assassins

39.A Fox Hunt

40.Truths and Lies

41.Scents on the Wind

42.The South Beckons

43.Capture

44.A Worthy Enemy

45.Stealing from Death

46.Potions and Promises

47.Death at Dawn

48.Entertain Us

49.The Lion's Claws

50.Prophecy

51.Drums that Change

52.Denial

53.Discovering Magic

54.Lancers on the Hill

55.The Battle of the Wagons

56.Blood Makes all Equal

57.Surrounded by Enemies

58.Then There Were Crows

59.Mamalu le Oit

Epilogue

If you enjoyed this book...

Prologue

Ambushed

A kingdom betrayed and a patriarch broken.

Discovered here is a loathsome vier.

Mark heaven’s morning for signs unspoken,

And know his memory is waning and dire.

Remember the song inscribed by the Ancient,

Harken the melody screeched by the palliard,

Forge from the embers unrequited penchant,

And observe the celestials’ desperate galliard.

—Shouted by Rhytin Darrinan, the Incorruptible Priest, from a tabletop at the Fete of the Sun in Old Olithia, 40 AV.

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480 seasons after Alytha’s Voyage

The carriage jolted, spilling Delindia’s wine across her chin. A delicate carmine bead glided down her slender neck. It slipped beneath her ruffled lace collar like a whisper of blood from parted lips, tracing the gentle curve of her breast and staining the finely woven cloth resting upon her chest like thistledown caressed by a summer breeze. Her ivory skin glistened, a virgin snowdrift beneath varnished rays of liquid sunlight—a stark contrast to the divergent droplet.

The incensed princess withdrew the silver chalice from pursed lips and patted her chin with an exquisite silk cloth the color of fresh cream. Delindia tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve.

Dayton is a monster who wishes for nothing more than to make this journey a relentless drudgery, she said, her tone scathing.

Delindia’s mother, Queen Lythra Adelwin, stared at her daughter with warm, soft eyes that spoke of endless patience. The aged woman’s refined beauty defied the wrinkles upon her noble cast like the waning splendor of a sunset scattering gold and scarlet dust over Olithia’s pristine, rolling steppes. Loose ringlets spilled around her features like drifting clouds tasked with gathering the last remnants of the sun’s retreat—lazy, gilded curls weaving through summer roses—auburn brightened by trails of amber.

The corners of the queen’s pale blue eyes crinkled with quiet mirth. She loved her heiress, despite the young woman’s regular outpourings of unconstrained emotion.

Lythra arched an eyebrow. Perhaps it is not our wagon master, child, but you. You have nearly consumed the bottle and grow unsteady. Remember, I wish to have at least a small sample of the smooth Braytonian red to present to your father once we return to the city. The wine is impossible to procure in Olithia.

Delindia scowled at her mother, who sat poised on the cushioned seat opposite her, back straight as a lance and hands folded upon her lap. The queen was too moral to embrace indulgence, a thought that narrowed Delindia’s eyes with resentment.

Princess Delindia Adelwin, Heiress of Olithia, Sovereign of the Free World, knew when the pale moon next bared her full smile for Aetharovyr’s mortal kingdoms, she would undertake her pilgrimage and coronation—a long-anticipated birthright—and she would inevitably replace her troublesome mother as Olithia’s beloved matriarch. Once the Holy Volant, the symbolic embodiment of Aetharovyr, Lord and Light of Heaven, arrayed the coronet upon her scarlet tresses, her mother would not address her with such scorn. Delindia despised chastisement, even, and perhaps especially, from her anointed mother’s lips.

The princess pressed a jeweled chalice to her mouth and gulped the remaining wine with a contented sigh.

Empty, Delindia whispered as if in a lover’s ear. She slouched in her cushioned seat, dragged a finger between her breasts in search of the rogue drop, and returned her mother’s gaze with a peevish smirk.

Pinching the goblet’s silver stem between her first two fingers, eyes wandering to the window at her side, Delindia rattled the ice hidden in the vessel’s bowl with a gentle clink.

They skirted the rim of Meridia, the empire’s southern kingdom—a land of beauty and decadence. Meridia, also the name of their capital, was home to a charming city of exquisite marble built on the shores of its massive lake.

Delindia savored dozens of rumors detailing Meridia’s dissipation. The high lords and ladies of the city committed unspeakable atrocities for the sake of pleasure, and the streets roiled with scandal. The princess all but salivated with the allure of their debauchery. Extravagance enriched her life, but she wanted more—more gold, wine, horse races, celebrations, and more handsome young men willing to whisper kind words into her ear with honey dripping from their lips.

The king, her father, had never failed to satisfy her every want during her upbringing, and she had developed a fondness for soft silks, gems, and delicacies and delights only a royal family could afford.

The princess longed to visit Meridia, the Pearl on the Mountain’s Feet, but her horrid mother objected. She objected to everything grand or fun.

Delindia gazed into her chalice, bending her wrist so the frozen crystals traced the vessel’s brim. Ice was Meridia’s trade. That and horses, but a Meridian sprinter, the fastest stock in all Alytha if not everywhere else too, could not sweeten a glass of wine.

Ice enhanced the essence of every refreshment. Braytonian wine and Meridian ice—no better combination had ever graced Alytha. The rimy liquid was a balm in Delindia’s mouth.

The princess bolted upright. An unseemly idea struck her like a splash of sea spray on a storm day. With a mischievous grin, she fished the ice from her chalice, tossed the cup to the floor, and, pinching a shard between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, plunged the frozen crystals down the front of her gown. The princess moaned in pleasure and slumped in her seat, eyes closed, her dress wrinkling around her legs in a brazen display of impropriety.

She moaned. Gods and stars, that feels good.

Queen Lythra’s pale eyes darted wide with horror. Delindia! Such excess does not become the future queen of Olithia.

But mother, Samrya has me cracked and aching. I told you we should have bought a wet nurse before departing Braytonia.

With a lazy turn of her head, Delindia shifted her mother’s attention to the swaddled babe sleeping on the bench beside her. She refused to withdraw her fingers from her gown despite her mother’s glower and the painful shiver trailing her spine—anything for a fleeting reprieve.

The queen’s patience slipped. We do not buy nurses. Slavery is outlawed in Alytha, and rightfully so. All are equal under The Light That Is. Perhaps you need to read the Enlightenment Tomes again, all twelve volumes.

Delindia massaged her chafed womanhood, simpering. I remember the tomes. I’m saying I ache. All the baby wants to do is drink me dry. No man will want to touch me after she spoils my youth. I’ll sag like one of Father’s hounds. And her screams are daggers in my ears.

Lythra’s relentless scowl impelled Delindia to withdraw the ice from her gown and cast it aside with a frown that mirrored her mother’s. The shards clacked against the carriage wall before bouncing to the floor, sliding to rest near the queen’s slippers. Delindia crossed her arms beneath her breasts in resentment and refused to meet the queen’s eyes.

She leaned between the window curtains to flout her mother’s silent reproach. And I think you wish to drain me of all happiness.

Lythra leaned forward and clucked with disapproval. The sun will spot your skin. And guardsmen like to stare. She tugged at the cords holding aside the curtains and gently pulled Delindia away from the opening.

The princess raised her voice in defiance. I don’t care if they stare. You are old. Men no longer care to look at you. That is why you hide me in foreign lands, taking me away from an adoring public. You are a bitter creature who wasted her youth, Mother, and now you wish for me to waste mine.

The queen sighed at her child’s rudeness. Lythra drew a deep, calming breath. Men who stare also dream, she said with a vague gesture, and men who dream above their station often greet misfortune.

Delindia spurned the queen’s disapproval by studying the carriage floor. She knew each bend and blemish in the polished planks. Two golden moons of bumpy travel had nearly driven her mad.

The princess sulked, knowing but refusing to admit her mother was right. She had discovered the truth of the queen’s words. Men who dreamed were dangerous, though they were also eager to please the future queen.

Her eyes drifted closed. Memories of a young soldier’s warm, calloused hands on her back and his hot breath on her breasts summoned prickles of pleasure to her neck and quickened her pulse. She yearned for his touch, not the clumsy, drunken advances of the new husband her mother had forced her to marry. The fool was still a boy, too inexperienced and too selfish to make her shiver with rapture and pant with raw desire.

Delindia spared a surreptitious glance at her mother. The queen watched her through calculating eyes, leaning forward like a cat ready to trap a pixie beneath its paws.

The princess flushed, fearing the queen had delved into her thoughts. Lythra often seemed to know too much. Delindia replaced her mind’s image of her lover’s attractive face with one of the leather-bound Enlightenment Tomes, all twelve volumes, and settled her expression on reverence.

Lythra withdrew, jaw tight, eyes sharp and discerning.

The princess feigned a smile.

Propriety and forbearance were two arrows absent from Delindia’s social quiver. Her untrammeled spirit had demanded the royal pair’s unexpected journey to Braytonia—a remote realm six hundred leagues south and west of Olithia. Droves of courtiers had fallen victim to Delindia’s coquettish charm and elegant figure. The princess flaunted her station and beauty, and gossip spread as freely as Delindia’s knees.

By sixteen summers, the princess had matured into a beauty in body if not in mind. Her red hair, vibrant like a prairie fire, a gift from her maternal lineage, drew stares from across Castle Alanna’s great hall. Delindia’s pearled complexion remained without blemish through her blossoming. Young heirs from each great house had pined for her consideration. After several nights of drinking and celebration surrounding her eighteenth natal day, Delindia had discovered herself with child. To complete the scandal, the princess proved unable or unwilling to recall which suitor had sired the illegitimate heir festering in her womb.

Lythra spirited her intractable daughter from Castle Alanna the same night as the girl’s confession to mitigate the burden of city gossip. They shrouded the debacle by submersing themselves in a crowd of foreigners for a full season—lingering beyond scrutiny until Samrya spilled into the world in a storm of blood, tears, and curses.

Lythra narrowly averted a rampant scandal despite her daughter’s apathy towards Olithia’s gossip. The queen spent a summer preparing for their return while Delindia did little more than burble for familiarity and her father’s affectionate and undeserved approval.

In Braytonia, Lythra had arranged for young Prince Evan Reinveld to espouse her defiled daughter. Evan was the youngest son of a royal house and the best bloodline Lythra could secure. The anxious queen had held her breath until the priest chanted the final syllable of the marriage ceremony, sealing her daughter’s future. A considerable fortune accompanied Delindia as a dowry, and Lythra offered a more significant, undisclosed sum to the prince to encourage a public acknowledgement of the child.

But those troubles lingered in the past as nothing more than uncomfortable memories.

Evan preferred to ride alongside the royal guard than spend the journey with the women in the cramped carriage. And Lanna, a genial Braytonian maid hired to care for the infant, accompanied them enough to change Samrya’s linens and little more.

Delindia detected Lanna’s muffled laughter as she flirted with members of the Queen’s Guard. The maid did not want for interest.

The princess despised the lowborn woman. Lanna was young and beautiful and as bashful as a virgin. Men seemed to like that. But Delindia’s feelings sprouted from envy like toadstools from cattle dung. Lanna remained free while Queen Lythra insisted her daughter endure endless fortnights of soulless instruction. Delindia would rather stare at the rolling umber hillocks and sage-covered steppes suffusing the lawless lands between empires than listen to her mother speak. She would rather strangle the old woman and toss her corpse out of the carriage than endure another lecture on politics.

Lythra’s lessons drove Lanna from the coach. When the queen rambled, Samrya’s nurse would excuse herself to enjoy the open air and the company of men.

The guards jostled for her favor when they should have fought for the favor of a princess.

Lythra began to drone about how the union between Braytonia and Olithia would change their future. She mumbled something about The Trade Road and tariffs, but Delindia lost herself in thought, growing mad with boredom.

Interesting and imaginative ways of silencing the old woman filled the princess’s thoughts.

This is precisely what I mean, the queen said. Delindia, are you listening?

Delindia faced her mother and offered a slight nod, eyebrows raised in mock sincerity.

Lythra scrutinized her daughter a moment before continuing. I’m glad you agree. Once we return, you will put all childish notions behind you. No more sneaking about, no more fits, and you will take your tutelage seriously. Aetharovyr has blessed you to assume my title as queen, but the volant must ratify your claim. If he considers you unworthy, then you will not receive the crown this season or next. By his word, you will wait until you are ready.

Delindia nodded, displaying a mask of humility while praying to Aetharovyr, The Light That Is, that a quick agreement would end the homily. She knew what to say to please the Volant.

The man was a fat toad and not at all pious. His ego was bigger than the temple he treated as his personal estate. His coffers were deep and his greed widely known. Delindia knew when to bend her knees to earn what she wanted. Her silver tongue would please him and secure the crown before summer’s end. Once she was queen, she could remove the repulsive prig.

They had reached the foothills of The Spires, the great expanse of mountains that shoved black lances into the radiant blue sky and slashed wispy clouds with snow-capped peaks along the Trade Road south of Olithia. Another fortnight at a leisurely pace would see them home.

Once settled within Castle Alanna’s red walls, Delindia would sway her father to her side. He always allied with her against the queen, except on those rare occasions when he played the fool and supported his wife.

The king, Kennon Adelwin—an Olithian high lord of House Peshas who adopted the royal family’s name upon marrying Lythra—had opposed the journey to Braytonia. He had expressed a desire to keep his precious ladies close, they being what he valued most in the world. Delindia intended to use his guilt against him, even if melancholy had raked furrows in his heart during her absence.

The princess pressed soft, slender fingers capped by nails coated in red wax to the swaying curtain to study the distant Spires, heart torn with longing. She ached to embrace her father and skip lightly in his shadow while he counseled with his court as she had when she was little. His low, rumbling voice was more comforting than any bottle of Braytonian wine.

Black eyes and a rotting tongue, Delindia whispered. The bright red wax capping her fingers, a style she had acquired from the high ladies during her time in Braytonia, would need repair. She had already fixed three chips in the coloring since sunrise. Beauty would not suffer bondage to practicality’s sterile hands.

Delindia rested her chin upon her palm, leaning close to the east-facing window, and considered the gossip that had raced through Rislynnad, First Capital of Braytonia. Dozens of rumormongers claimed fire had rained upon Alytha and the glassy shores of the Aterna Sea, inciting panic and unrest.

Flashes of silver and red light had allegedly scarred the great peaks marking Olithia’s southern border, and the mountains had trembled beneath thick, twisting columns of black smoke. Some claimed mobs had laid siege to the great houses and King Kennon had abandoned his throne. These rumors, though certainly born of fancy, had encouraged the royal company to hasten toward home.

The Spires appeared as they always had, gray and still, leading Delindia to dismiss the unsettling tales with a frown.

The princess suddenly bolted upright and strained her ears. Her mother ceased her discourse. She must have heard it too. And the air felt wrong. The sound came again, like the dive of one of her sporting falcons, followed by a dull clunk.

Shouts of alarm erupted outside the carriage, punctuated by blades scraping free of scabbards.

The cart lurched. Delindia was thrown back against her seat. She regained her balance and reached for the cloth veiling the window as the carriage bounced across uneven ground.

Stay back! Lythra forced her daughter from the opening.

Delindia watched in stunned fascination as burgundy swirls like maple leaves buried deep in autumn’s embrace rose in the queen’s eyes, pushing aside her natural sapphire shade. Vermillion waves streaked with black stole the light and loveliness from the queen’s cast. She appeared fiendish as she called upon Evne—Aetharovyr’s blessing, a gift of magic bestowed upon the royal bloodline. Thin tendrils of mist like ruffled lace soaked in blood rose from the queen’s darkened eyes and fell upon her cheeks and lashes.

Resentment and admiration clawed for dominion over Delindia’s heart. She had yet to grow into her power. The queen had cited the unwarranted pregnancy as the cause for the delay, but Delindia was impatient to savor the flows of Evne in her blood. It was, she had heard, an unrivaled fusion of awareness and thrill like sailing on open water churning with waves taller than the northern sea towers, capped with ivory spindrift summoned by winds hurling a dark thunderstorm toward land—one that could turn the eastern sky to ashes.

Men bellowed in surprise.

Pockets of thunder cracked outside the carriage, reports from Adeltrik and Annaka, twin fray mages dispatched by King Kennon to protect his family during their journey. Flashes of blue and golden light drove Delindia to raise a hand to spare her eyes. Heat poured through the carriage’s thin curtains.

Swords sang, bows hissed, and men threw curses into the surrounding hills alongside their arrows.

Lanna’s scream pierced Delindia’s chest like a dagger that had been sheathed in a snowdrift. The princess shivered, willing without avail to still the quivering of her chin. Her mother was powerful, as were the fray mages, but Delindia’s mind breathed life into unworldly threats—boggarts and demons powerful enough to veil the sun with shadow, dark magic, and curses cited by prophecy. She could not see what lurked outside the fragile security of her wooden box.

The carriage bounded forward. Dayton cracked his whip and shouted frantic encouragement to his team of four stout shires. Their massive hooves drummed the packed earth. The wagon rattled and jarred, bouncing precariously over jagged stones made bare by seasons of wind and ruts dug by countless storms. The southern roads were unkind, but the sounds of conflict ringing outside the carriage were savage.

Delindia struggled to keep her seat.

Samrya stirred, plump features scrunching, and wailed.

The wagon slammed to an abrupt halt, throwing Delindia off the bench and into her mother’s arms. Samrya screamed. The child thrashed on the floor, tossed from the padded seat by the sudden stop, and battled free of her swaddling blanket. Delindia scooped the infant into her arms and cradled her against her breasts.

Mother, what is happening? the princess asked from her knees. She abandoned her struggle to hold back her tears.

An ambush. Lythra’s words had become deeper, more penetrating, and rang with power—thunder summoning rough seas.

A storm of hollow thuds reverberated through the wagon’s interior as if a swarm of enraged eagles dove at the roof. Galloping hooves falling on packed earth, snapping branches, and howls jerked from wounded soldiers swallowed the softer thumping against the carriage walls. Delindia felt the screams and hoofbeats as much as she heard them. Dread swept through her, but she looked to her mother for comfort. The queen was attentive and touched by concern, but she remained in perfect control of her emotions.

Fear could not rule Lythra Adelwin, Queen of Olithia.

Dayton shouted a string of dark curses. His whip cracked against flesh that Delindia did not believe belonged to the shires. The carriage rocked. Muffled, angry obscenities quickly melted into painful howls as attackers made invisible by the carriage walls dragged Dayton from his seat. Several sickening thumps staunched the driver’s outrage.

Delindia, Lythra said, snatching her daughter by the shoulders. Take Samrya and flee into the hills. Do not stop. Do not look back. Go to Redveld near the border. On foot, you can be there by sunset tomorrow. Find the village’s priest. He will secure your passage home.

What of you, Mother? Delindia asked through her tears, voice strained with fear.

Lythra shook her head. I will come when I can. She leaned forward, pulling Delindia’s brow to hers. Go, my daughter. Take courage. Take little Samrya to safety. May the blood of your house, may the blessing of Aetharovyr protect you from the dark and the dead.

The queen reached for the door. A hiss flicked through the ivory veil hanging before the window. Delindia flinched, eyes fixed on the tear in the curtains, mind failing to understand the odd sound that reminded her of a serving maid who had dropped half of a honeydew in Castle Alanna’s great hall during one of her father’s toasts.

Lythra slumped back into her seat. Delindia stared in shock at the wooden shaft protruding between her mother’s breasts. The arrow’s dark fletching matched the blood spreading across the front of the queen’s green velvet gown. Harsh red light fading, her eyes returned to a beautiful, pristine azure.

The matriarch of Olithia stared without blinking, lifeless, head and neck twisted to one side.

Delindia shook with terror. Her mouth felt as if she had blanketed her tongue with a handful of cattail down. She tried to scream, but nothing more than a raspy squeal escaped her lips. She attempted to stand, but her legs succumbed to weakness and refused to obey.

The carriage tilted with a gentle squeak, steel and wood protesting an added burden. Boots tapped on the metal step outside the door. Two heartbeats later, a leering, predatory face filled the window.

What pretties hide in here? A horrible, wanton smile parted a mud-streaked bandit’s gaunt features. Filthy hands, fingers slick with blood, gripped the pale curtains, holding the pristine cloth around his features like a priestess’s sacred cowl.

Dirt stained his cheeks beneath matted, unwashed hair. His mouth displayed unsettling gaps that revealed a pink tongue’s eager dance behind raw and cracked lips. The few teeth clinging to his disturbing grin presented a nauseating blend of colors and textures like the splotchy fur on the back of a dire wolf stricken with den fester plague. Many of his teeth were fractured or leaning at odd angles.

The stranger licked his lips and gaped at Delindia’s plunging neckline.

A lovely thing. A thing for me. A thing I want. Must have it. He tore his greedy eyes away from the princess’s smooth, creamy skin to fumble with the door latch.

In an instinctive rage, Delindia settled her shrieking child on the bench and lunged for the man’s pale, corrupted eyes.

The bandit jolted, surprised by Delindia’s feral snarl. When her hands met his flesh, she curled her fingers into his slack-jawed face, teeth clenched with a sudden fury born of fear and desperation. She felt his skin catch and curl beneath her fingertips like old paint peeling from the wooden bow of one of her father’s warships. She dug deeper, clawing at his terrible, Meridian-blue eyes.

Meridia would suffer for its crimes. King Adelwin would send his armies to crush the pearl beneath his boot heel.

The man fell away with a cry, stumbling to his back on the ground outside the carriage.

You filthy whore! Look what you done to me face! he said, scrambling to his knees. He prodded his wounds with grimy fingertips before staggering to his feet.

Delindia hung outside the carriage window, staring at her attacker, sensing the filth and blood beneath her waxed fingernails.

The bandit leaped for her as she attempted to scramble inside and gather her child before running as her mother had instructed. Encumbered by the folds of her dress, her attacker snared a fistful of her hair with dirty fingers and tore the red strands free of her gold and emerald circlet.

Delindia shrieked and flailed as he hauled her into the open air. She clawed at his arm. He dropped her and yowled like a kicked hound. Delindia fought to stand. A tear in her dress exposed one slender leg from ankle to hip. Hair fell in tangles across her frightened features.

Samrya shrieked inside the carriage. Delindia threw a glance over her shoulder before glaring at the bandit with a mother’s fury, ready to die protecting her young.

The vile creature studied Delindia’s exposed leg. Lust-filled eyes lingered on the torn border of the lavish cloth draped over her limb. She shivered. His hunger bathed her, thick and greasy like rancid oil.

A pity about that dress. A second man strode over to join the filthy one. He was clean, with smooth features and brushed hair. His face was young and handsome, and he carried himself with purpose.

Watch her, sir. She been meaner than the soldiers, the fiend said.

Hideous eyes tore from Delindia’s exposed limb to regard the approaching nobleman. The wretch stooped, shoulders bowed and head turned down in submission, wincing while he offered the warning as though fearful of disapproval.

The well-dressed man assessed the bleeding strips of torn flesh on the repugnant creature’s face and arm.

Please help me, Delindia said to the other man, her voice soft, shrill, and desperate.

He appeared highbred in his tailored Meridian-blue waistcoat and tall riding boots. Through his open coat, Delindia glimpsed the fish-scaled hilt of a falchion, which she was confident he could wield better than the dodgy man could use the dagger strapped to his belt. The nobleman stood tall, prominent jaw set with determination. Delindia had flirted with enough Meridian lordlings to recognize one.

The carriage had reached the border between Olithia and Meridia, so this noble’s appearance did not warrant surprise. If he were indeed a lord, then he would have an escort with him. His guards would dispatch the bandits and her father would reward him for his bravery.

Delindia searched the surrounding field for his house’s colors but saw only rough men in stained homespun. Ruffians swarmed her guards, weapons clashing, the green capes of her house stained with blood. Arrows flicked from the shelter of the trees to the west. Hooded figures brushed the crown of a low knoll to the east.

The carriage and the Queen’s Guard were surrounded.

Dayton lay amid trampled grass soaked with his blood. The shape of his head looked wrong. A man with hard eyes rammed a slender blade through the neck of a soldier with a pair of arrows already embedded in his chest.

Four ragged thieves hovered over Lanna while two others pinned her to the ground. A glove wedged between her teeth dampened her screams as they severed the laces securing her gown with daggers painted with dead soldiers’ blood.

Delindia searched for her husband. Braytonians were respected for their talent with daggers. Her eyes fell across the field, but she could not find him among the living or dead. She spotted his gray stallion trotting south and flinched, feeling sick, when she realized a dark-haired rider was caught in the saddle’s stirrup. His body thumped over the uneven ground, slack arms trailing, three arrows stuck in his torso.

Delindia stiffened with fear. Her heart raced. She was at the shallow mercy of her attackers. She pressed trembling hands to her middle to fortify her nerves and refused to believe she was without hope. Frailty threatened to fold her knees and pull her to the ground. The fools had murdered her mother and husband, high nobility from different lands. They could have ransomed the prince for his weight in gold and exchanged the queen for tillable farmland that would have fed their families for generations.

Delindia’s voice shook, but she tried to speak calmly and steadily. I am heiress of Olithia. My father will reward you for seeing my baby and me safely home. My father is King Kennon. You can take the gold in our trunk as a measure of good faith. She gestured toward the back of the wagon. And whatever other valuables you find. I promise there will be more when we reach Castle Alanna.

The greasy man growled like a cornered dog ready to turn on his master. Stained teeth gnashed at the air. You promised me!

Delindia raised a hand to accuse the filthy vagrant. He tried to kill me. Be warned, there is no reward if I die. Only a long hunt that ends with an arrow, a blade, or a rope.

A rain of frantic tears watered her flushed cheeks. Her dress felt too tight. She struggled to draw steady, deep breaths. Her heart pulsed in her ears. She scrubbed at her cheeks, struggling to hold her back straight.

Lanna’s screams and men’s throaty laughter pierced Delindia’s heart with a lance cast from hoarfrost gathered from the banks of Allana Bay on the bitterest winter night. Her throat felt raw. She drew sharp, wheezy breaths, fearing the bandits would turn on her when they finished with the maid. She pitied Lanna. If only the horrible men would kill her and be done.

Delindia gathered her courage and fixed her eyes on the man in front of her. He wielded a soft, encouraging smile, but his eyes scattered as much comfort as a cloak made from lace worn during a sea storm.

The princess sobbed, clinging to a few rotten crumbs of hope. She longed to watch the sun rise over the Aterna Sea, to see Aetharovyr cast glinting, golden roads across the water and draw scarlet mantles over the morning clouds. She yearned to stand with her father atop the castle and call out the ships as each slipped through Alanna’s massive sea gate. She could predict what cargo filled each vessel’s belly by the design of the craft and the sigil on its standard.

The gentleman approached with slow, deliberate steps, gloved hands held in front of him to display empty palms. He pursed his lips and made a soft shushing sound. Delindia let her tears fall and shook with terror.

Have no fear, my lady, he said. His steps matched his words, cautious and gentle as if she were a mare ready to bolt. With a gloved hand, he grasped her upper arm to support her weakening knees.

Delindia blubbered, relieved the man had chosen to seek a reward from the king.

My father will offer you a lordship, she said through a face wet with tears.

Smoldering, rancid fury transformed the nobleman’s face, and his grip tightened on her arm. Delindia’s eyes widened in shock and horror. A gloved hand seized her neck. Her breath tangled in her throat, desperate and wild like a wolf caught in a snare. She thrashed to be free, striking with her claws. Icy contempt warped the man’s handsome visage, turning him into a creature more sinister than the demons in her dreams. Feral anger burned in his pale blue eyes—but not a hunger for sated lust like the matted wolf stalking in his wake. His was a deep, abiding need for validation, for power, for infamy. His price could not be paid in gold.

Delindia’s chin quivered. Her heart thrummed against her ribs like a startled doe’s hooves against a patch of frozen earth.

Achreios is not allowed to kill you. His mouth warped, lingering in a cruel rictus, eyes burning. But I am sworn to do it. I have been paid in gold and titles already—payment to ensure you fail to return home. Your mother and babe are worth more dead than the promises of a false and fallen king. Morgallen, the rightful king, has seized your birthright and will lead us into a new era of peace and prosperity that House Adelwin could never fathom. A pity you won’t see it. But I will let you see the end of your house.

A dagger punched through Delindia’s dress and bit deep into her flesh beneath her left breast. The weapon’s unguarded grip bruised her ribs from the force of the Meridian’s strike. Blinding pain weakened her knees. Her muscles tightened around the blade as it slipped from her body like a chilled raindrop on a pane of frosty glass—slow, wet, and colder than winter.

The princess gulped for breath, mouth working uselessly. The left side of her chest grew tight and heavy. Uncontrollable tremors stole the strength from her limbs.

The man held her a moment and watched her eyes. Your death is near, but you can watch and bleed while I kill your mother and your whelp, he said, releasing his grip on her throat.

Warmth and peace flowed through Delindia, and for a moment, her eyes saw clearly and her legs stood firmly beneath her. She spoke as with another’s voice. What is claimed in blood is taken in blood. The child will unravel an empire and remake the foundations of the world. By my death, my words are sealed.

The princess toppled to the ground, landing on her side with an arm twisted behind her back. What hope she had fled with her breath. Her vision grew hazy. She watched as if she stood atop one of the distant hills while the lordling marched toward her carriage and screaming child.

Delindia knew death circled her. She heard the crows and the yaps of scavengers that had caught the rich scents of blood and parted bowels, an invitation more alluring than an offer from any king.

A consuming, burning thirst tore at Delindia’s tongue. The warmth of her life spilled out of her. Blood’s metallic tang crept into her mouth. Her body shook, her lungs burned, and her vision swam. She struggled to breathe, raging with panic before her mind grew distant. Her fear vanished, replaced by the consuming pain of her wound. But that, too, diminished like the horizon above the Aterna Sea at dusk.

Fear not, Achreios, the man said, snatching the carriage door. She’s not dead. You can still have your fun. Not that a cold, stiff corpse would stop you.

Delindia peered at the fading world, numb to her surroundings. Riderless horses galloped from the field without the steady hand of a royal guardsman to soothe them. Grimy men with bows and bared steel swarmed the roadway and hills. Guards in green surcoats and capes rested atop soil stained with their blood, most pierced by several arrows.

The princess searched for something to hold on to, anything to keep from slipping into the darkness.

Bandits swarmed among the corpses like jackals, ripping out throats to ensure none remained alive, mutilating the dead by removing faces and hands. Somewhere beyond Delindia’s view, Lanna’s wails grew louder and more desperate. They would kill her, too, eventually.

The Meridian jerked open the coach’s door and rose into the compartment. The princess gathered her remaining strength to roll onto her knees and stretch a hand toward the carriage, hopeless, eyes ripe and red with fear and pleading. Her helpless child was alone inside. She covered her bleeding wound with cold, trembling fingers and struggled to her feet. She attempted to speak but only coughed a spray of delicate red droplets that reminded her of spilled Braytonian wine.

The stranger reappeared with the child, holding her roughly by one arm. He stepped down from the carriage, ignored Delindia’s silent supplication, and raised the baby in front of him to inspect her beneath the sunlight.

With what looked like premeditated regret, he cast the child to the ground, drew his falchion, and drove the weapon through the infant’s chest.

Samrya’s screaming ended, subjecting the land to an unnatural hush.

The world staggered to his knees beneath the brutal weight of infanticide. The air chilled. Delindia’s numbness deepened. Her eyes lost focus.

The Meridian shook his head, withdrew his steel from the child’s flesh, and strode off, shouting orders to his demons.

Soul-wrenching anguish sliced through Delindia’s bodily pain, driving aside her shock. She lost strength and collapsed. Verdant blades of grass scraped unblinking eyes, but she lacked the will to close them. The smell of earth filled her nostrils. The fall drove the last of her breath from her lungs. Her soul slipped into obscurity like a falcon pierced by an arrow while soaring on warm, invisible currents. Her soul dropped into a hollow darkness, splashing into an icy river of sorrow and pain.

The dirty man’s hands rolled her over, exploring the smooth skin beneath her dress. He groped her, tearing at her gown like a wolf at a deer’s belly.

Delindia understood the lust in his eyes, but she no longer cared. Death had already claimed her.

Chapter one

Omens

A child buds as soft as a rose.

Under Aetharovyr, gently she grows.

She rises beneath the usurper’s eye,

A ray of sun poured from the sky.

A hope unfurled like a banner old.

The Light’s victory has been foretold.

—Whispered by believers in the halls of Castle Alanna.

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498 AV

Vale’s brow burst through the water’s surface. She tossed her head back, raining limpid droplets from matted tresses to incite a glimmer of coalescing ripples, and sucked a mouthful of crisp morning air into waiting lungs. Treading water, she welcomed the frigid lake’s comforting flow across her bare skin. A lazy brume rose from the water’s still surface as if the tarn sighed with relief at winter’s long-anticipated retreat.

From her limited vantage atop the surface, Vale scanned the mountains, savoring an inspiring panorama more satisfying than sipping from a bowl of steaming broth after a frosty day of hunting in the highlands. The imposing peaks retained lacy snow caps, but winter’s chill had succumbed to spring’s splendor, and many lower pinnacles cut through their hibernal blankets in spreading patches.

Silver and brown branches, stripped of their lush mantels by long, frosty nights, stretched over the valley where birch and oak trees conquered the craggy slopes. Countless boughs shivered in the morning breeze, cautiously unveiling vibrant green buds—fresh life to contest winter’s drab.

A lonely swamp oak rested askew upon the muddy shore nearby. Its thick roots protruded from the strand and its naked canopy reached lengthy, tortuous branches over the water, obscuring the lake’s ruffled edge from the warmth of the rising sun.

Vale bobbed beyond this sliver of shadow near the middle of the tarn, delighting in the gilded rays falling upon her cheeks.

She inhaled sharply, appreciating the faint aromas of revived greenery and topsoil stirred by a fleeting mizzle the previous evening. Water rippled beneath her chin. The melody cast by the placid current resonated with calling birds and chattering squirrels.

Vale swam toward shore, toting a slip of slimy water hawthorn in her fist.

The cascades dominated Olithia’s sweeping steppes west of her oasis and demarcated the kingdom’s outermost reaches. A rustic town brimming with misanthropic mountaineers and tumultuous trappers hid in the foothills half a day south by foot, all but forgotten by the capital except when taxes were collected by a magistrate once every third season.

Locals dubbed the hamlet Trader Town with all the affection of a sow weaning a litter of squealing piglets, though if any could have read a map, they would have realized Riverton was the official designation of their shabby settlement.

Merchants visited Riverton with decreasing frequency since King Morgallen’s brutal slaughter, a season of social unrest called the Cleansing by most locals, when Morgallen subdued Alytha beneath his rule. He introduced a new faith, a new government, and a new way of life.

After the blood and tears dried, the people accepted and applauded his arrival. They grew frail and idle on his fruitless creed. Morgallen carried the peoples’ burdens even as he stole their liberty, making them his slaves.

At least that was the tale Vale had learned from her mentor, Matias.

With a sigh, she pulled herself toward shore, knowing she could not neglect her duties all morning. She loved to swim, to cast aside the burden of responsibility, if only for a moment as the sun, the all-seeing Aetharovyr, The Light That Is, ascended toward the height of his glory each day. This was her first swim since spring’s arrival. She had crunched through the ice along the bank, thin shards cracking beneath bare feet, before splashing into water thick with winter’s chill. But she had never balked at a little cold.

When the soggy lake bottom rose towards the water’s rippling surface, Vale allowed her feet to fall beneath her until her toes curled into the slick mud beneath the shallows. She shuffled forward two steps. Water lapped around her midriff.

A flicker of movement caught her eye.

She stiffened, breath still and heart racing. Something furred trotted lazily from the trees, paws silent on the frosty grass. It ignored her and sniffed at the shore where she had entered the lake.

The creature, a young dire wolf, sniffed at her neatly folded clothes. It focused on one of her belt pouches where she kept a strip of cured lamb she had intended to eat for her midday meal. The wolf, gray like frost clinging to bare soil, worked the latch with tongue and teeth. After a few moments, the pouch opened, and the wolf claimed his prize.

Vale stood motionless. Water whispered against her skin. With her arms poised above the ripples, she tore her eyes from the predator to mark her bow resting two paces nearer the lake than the deadly wolf. Even without the water to slow her, she could never hope to cover the six steps to shore before the monstrous hunter pounced. Dire wolves were known to feed on isolated shepherds and their flocks.

But they hated water, or so Vale heard and hoped.

The wolf sat on his haunches to clean his muzzle and forepaws with his tongue.

After a string of uncomfortable moments, Vale’s chin began to quiver with cold, and she wondered how much time would pass before the wolf found something more interesting and padded back into the wood. She could not stay half submerged in frigid water. Already she felt the lake dragging the heat from her limbs. The longer she waited to act, the stiffer she would be.

She could call to her kalwa, northern wardogs—the wolf’s larger, domestic cousins. Her dogs watched her flock on the blind side of the ridge to the south. She doubted they would hear her, though, nor would they reach her before the dire wolf tore out her throat. And, she knew, other wolves stalking in the trees would ambush her boys.

A rumor trickling through the local homesteads numbered the pack at seven members.

Some claimed as many as twelve.

Vale cursed her foolishness for not acting with greater vigilance.

Cold worked into her hands, tightening her fingers and numbing her senses. She rubbed her arms to summon warmth to her extremities. The motion was enough to alert the dire wolf. His head jerked toward her, brown eyes burning with focused intelligence. Vale lowered herself in the water, tightening her muscles and fortifying a determination to bound toward her bow. Her heart raced. Fear begged her to retreat deeper into the lake.

Wolves would swim if pressed. Everyone knew this.

Courage failed her when another dire wolf trotted from a patch of scraggly undergrowth to join the first. She was black as night and larger than her companion, with piercing yellow eyes that were rich and vibrant like mountain gold blossoms unfurled beneath a summer sun.

Vale locked eyes with the beautiful creature, feeling its stare slide inside her like a swallow of ice water. Her skin tightened with dread, but she forced her breath to remain steady and her legs to stay strong, summoning every scrap of courage she could gather from the dark corners of her mind and heart.

The dire wolf’s judgment bore down on her, tearing into her soul. Vale felt its power, its predatory grace, its instinct and intelligence sweep through her. Naked and without a defense save numb fingers and stiff joints, she suffered a wave of humble respect for what she understood was the pack’s matriarch.

The wolf could kill her, but Vale would fight it with all the wild fury seasons of homesteading had branded into her soul. She thought she sensed a tide of mutual respect rise in the silent creature’s eyes, but the feeling could have arisen from desperation and false hope.

Something inside Vale shifted when the wolf’s amber irises, replete with cunning, struck her icy blue eyes like lances. It was as if the world had sat askew all her life and was now, in that lingering heartbeat, thrust into place like setting a bone broken in a fall.

She wanted to turn away, to slip deeper into the security of her mountain lake, but the dire wolf would not release her from its gaze. Legends claimed the deadly, noble predators were the harbingers of the gods, messengers dispatched with tidings of change.

An image, hazy and distant, swam in Vale’s thoughts.

A woman sat upon a throne resting in what appeared to be a field covered in a sheet of pristine ice. She wept with her head buried in her hands. A crown of woven sheaves ripe and ready for harvest rested on vibrant red hair. Wheat and hair were a fall harvest set aflame. The woman’s ivory skin shone with unmarred beauty. Tears slipped between her fingers and ran down her wrists. Her shoulders shook with sobs, with suffering birthed from the hollow ache that grants cause to mourn.

Vale blinked, drawn from the image by a flutter of wings. A golden plover lighted upon the strand three paces from the dire wolf. It dipped its beak into the water and shook its head, mustering a flurry of bubbles and ripples. Vale narrowed her eyes at the little bird, sorting through the meaning of its appearance alongside the wolf.

Most uplanders considered plover sightings the end of winter, but others believed they marked the presence of a fay. The dire wolf could be interpreted as a warning of impending judgment or good fortune. Perhaps one of the wild mountain fairies had entreated these lesser beasts to scare her from its tarn.

Vale frowned, unwilling to abandon her favorite place in the kingdom over a little superstition. Her skin prickled with uneasiness as she considered more sinister interpretations of the omens. A dark foreboding settled upon her shoulders like a mantle of storm clouds. Something deeper and darker than the cold summoned tight, almost painful bumps on her back and arms, and she could not shake a sudden sense of forthcoming ruin.

The female dire wolf raised her muzzle and sniffed at the air. She spread her jaws in a toothy yawn that ended with a yap. The male panted, turning to scrutinize the mountains, growing anxious. The bigger, black-coated wolf nipped at the male’s ear and trotted for the trees. He followed on her heels.

Vale counted three breaths before racing for the shore. Water splashed around her limbs. The plover took flight with a warble. She reached for her bow and realized she still held the hawthorn in her fist. Trading the slip for a weapon, she dragged an arrow from her quiver, nocked, and drew in the span of two frightened heartbeats, but the wolves had already vanished.

Her legs grew weak. Her hands and arms trembled with latent fear that burst to the forefront of her thoughts. She fell onto folded knees, arms no longer strong enough to draw her bow, and trembled, breath ragged as fear subsided over several shaky moments.

An airy laugh burst from her throat and eased the tension from her limbs.

Vale rose to her feet, knowing the cold would do what the wolves had not if she lingered. She stood on the shore while water ran from her arms and legs to form small puddles around her feet. Wisps of pale vapor rose from her skin. Prickles crawled from her heels to her scalp, summoning waves of shivering. Jaw clamped shut to prevent her teeth from rattling. She wrung her hair with both hands, squeezing the lake from her red tresses.

Vale stared at the stand where the wolves had vanished, eyes ever moving. A smile bent her lips. She would have the best story for the next ten moons, if not all season. Most of the town boys would not believe she had faced a dire wolf and lived to brag about it. Louck would, but he was an uplander like her, and he understood the dangers lurking in the hills.

The mountains drew her eyes and a long, shuddering sigh. An eternity had passed since she last visited the highlands where a misplaced step, sudden storm, or stalking beast like a dire wolf could offer her a gruesome death. Greater threats than wolves stalked the gray peaks, like ogres and trolls and mountain bears, but life left few opportunities for adventure anymore. She pined for another, but civil unrest and tax increases forced childhood fantasies from her thoughts.

Vale had settled for exploring and hunting the peaks nearest her home, never spending more than a few days away from her father’s flock.

Turning her back to the mountains and adventure, Vale reached for her clothes. She caught a hint of her reflection and kicked at the water. She cared little for her appearance. Boys preferred girls who giggled and swooned. She was thin and lithe from laboring in the fields and chasing sheep across steep, rocky hills, not soft and ripe with curves like a town girl who ate chilled cream and strawberries after making a meal of a juicy partridge someone else had hunted.

Her hair, typically vibrant red streaked with gold like a fire devouring aged pine, lay dark and matted against smooth features. The sun had darkened her skin as the spring days grew longer, sparsely dotting her cheeks with sunspots.

Her mother called her beautiful, but it was a mother’s privilege to compliment her daughter.

Without thought, a hand slid to the scar centered in the furrow of her abdomen where her ribs joined. The slender white line stretched longer than the width of her palm. She pondered the scar’s origin, as she often did when thoughts turned inward. The old, healed wound reached beyond memory and was a riddle her parents could not solve, though she suspected they knew more than they told.

Vale shivered and donned her underclothes.

Her father’s flock grazed in an adjacent valley—the largest drove in the foothills.

She labored to honor her father’s memory by expanding the herd, nearly doubling the number of successful births since her patriarch, Bretto, died during a trip into Trader Town for a new ax. The routine trip should not have claimed his life.

Lord Thesvan Rivers, mayor of Trader Town, had called Bretto’s death a misfortune, though he had prevented the local healer from examining the body and recording a cause for the healthy homesteader’s unexpected demise.

A look of fondness graced Vale’s face. She recalled her father’s deep voice and gentle encouragement. The memory of his smile remained untainted by time. Her father had been her closest companion, her friend, her confidant, and her world.

Now she felt alone.

Isolation in the dreary foothills failed to foster many attachments beyond her mother and her mentor Matias. Though Louck, the sole son of a nearby homesteading family, provided jovial company. They had come up together, but lately, he watched her as if she were a stranger. She had caught him staring during the king’s most recent gathering, and when their eyes met, he had flushed and turned away.

Vale frowned at a gust of frigid morning air. Her skin prickled. She pulled a brown dress of frayed, coarse wool over her head and fastened a slim leather belt around her hips. The strap supported a short knife, its edge sharp but worn from frequent use, and three leather pouches for the herbs and roots she collected daily—now lighter without her midday meal. She tossed a hooded green cape around her shoulders and sat to pull on her stockings and mud-stained, weathered boots.

After retrieving the slimy hawthorn stem and drawing her knife to separate the flower and tuber from their long stalk, she slipped the severed parts into a pouch at her hip. Vale snatched her blackwood bow and plump quiver, both gifts to mark her eighteenth natal day the previous summer.

The bow and matching arrows were an expense beyond the usual means of those living in the foothills.

Tears burned her eyes. Her mother had sacrificed much to acquire the bow. It had no equal in all of Trader Town and was a relic from before the Cleansing when Kezzah boasted more than desolation and bones.

Vale rose and dusted soil and frost from her dress.

Clothed and refreshed from her swim, she began the short trek over the hill to rejoin her grazing flock. The beauty and warmth of a sun risen three hands above the horizon spurred her, and she broke into a run. She traversed the incline with effortless grace, evading jagged rocks and hidden pits that could tear her soft-soled boots or turn her ankles.

These hills were hers. She felt as much at home in the open air as she did in her cabin, and certainly more than she did in the cramped, bustling streets of Trader Town.

She paused when she crested the rise to survey her little flock. Satisfied all was quiet, she slowed to a jog, drawing long, cleansing breaths while bounding partway down the hill to her favorite rock.

The outcropping held a small, moss-covered shelf that served as a comfortable seat with an unobstructed view of the valley. Vale scrambled into place and stretched her legs in front of her, ankles crossed.

Padding footfalls pulled her upright before she had settled, and she peered around the crag with a smile. Her kalwa, Kylaan and Ravek, the names of the ancient Queen Olithia’s twins, greeted her with wagging tails and slack grins.

Good boys. Vale leaned down to offer each a spirited rub. Are the sheep safe?

The battle hounds were a gift from Matias, who lived nearby at the base of the mountains and visited with greater frequency of late. Vale suspected he was growing fond of her mother.

Matias taught Vale how the world worked, how people thought and what motivated the masses, as well as lessons in arms and combat. He brought her on hunting trips into the peaks to teach her to track game, fish, and stay hidden while stalking prey. She could find shelter and make fire. She knew which plants were edible and could prepare those with medicinal properties. Matias trained her to wield the blade he once carried as a soldier and to employ various other weapons with tact and confidence. The fount of knowledge that sprang from his mind seemed endless, and Vale cherished each lesson like a rare gem.

Settling into her post, she studied the valley and her flock, eyes keen and mind vigilant after encountering the dire wolves. She kept her bow within arm’s reach.

The sheep looked like patches of dirty snow clinging to winter’s memory among the young, lush vegetation offered by spring. Lambs darted amid the drove, shaking their little heads, bounding and bucking, frolicking through the pasture as shabby, winter- weary ewes tore mouthfuls of grass from the earth. Her ram, Brux, had perched on a ridge at the opposite end of the valley, ringed horns raised in defiance of any lurking predators.

The quiet serenity of the upland basin warmed Vale’s soul as surely as the sun warmed her face. She felt at peace despite her recent brush with the wolves. Predators were a natural part of living. She fit here, in her valley and its cycle of life and mourning.

She scanned the dell, a visual feast of dozens of verdant shades accented by budding snowdrops and hellebore. The vernal season, with its bright colors and gentle rains, had won her favor. The air carried a chill in the spring, but the sun felt warm and comforting. Revived pastures brought hope. Blotches of rich green trefoil brightened the valley, spreading tufts of brilliant yellow flowers as a tribute to the rising sun.

She