Shield of Sparrows

I slipped through the side entrance of the throne room, breath held as I moved on silent feet to join Margot and Mae to the left of the royal dais.

“Welcome.” Father’s voice was as cold as the large, echoey space. He preferred an icy atmosphere, probably because it so often matched his mood.

Light poured through stained glass windows, casting the marble floor with different shades of blues and greens and yellows. Everyone was gathered in the center of the space, Father’s golden throne empty on its dais. There were more guards than normal. Four instead of two stationed at every door.

Father’s gaze didn’t shift from the men standing in front of him, but without a doubt, he knew I was sneaking in late. Something I’d be berated for later.

Margot and Mae were removed from the group of men, standing side by side a few paces back, crowned and polished. Daughter as beautiful as mother. While my sister was a copy of Father in their stubborn, iron wills, Mae was a near replica of Margot in appearance, from the classic line of their noses to the tapered point of their chins.

Did I look like my mother? I wished I had a reminder of her face. She died when I was a baby, and Father had her portraits removed from the halls. The only reason I knew I’d inherited her hair was because of how often Margot cursed it. But otherwise, I had no idea if we had the same nose or chin or mouth.

As I came to a stop at Margot’s side, she shot me a look of disapproval, then returned her attention to the men.

Five Turans stood shoulder to shoulder, their broad frames forming a wall. Each was a pillar of honed muscle and brute strength. Gods, they were huge.

Banner stood over six feet tall, but compared to these men, he was lean and gangly. Even Father, who was the largest man I’d ever seen, was no match for Turan stature and brawn.

No wonder they’d been able to kill the marroweels.

The Turans weren’t dressed in finery, not that I’d expected tailored coats or shining boots from a band of warriors. They wore leather pants that molded to thick thighs. Their brown, tooled vests were worn over ivory cotton tunics that strained against corded biceps. Each wore leather cuffs at his wrists. Two of the men had intricate, dark tattoos covering their forearms.

Every Turan was armed with knives or swords strapped across his back. One man carried three daggers on his belt. They looked prepared for war, not a dinner with royals.

It was surprising that Father even let them into the throne room the way they were armed. Normally, guests were stripped of their weaponry before an audience with the king. Had the Turans refused? Or had the guards even bothered asking?

“Before we begin the introductions.” Father’s deep voice echoed through the room. “I would like to extend my gratitude for your services. My men tell me that six marroweels were brought in with your ships last night. I hadn’t expected you to act so quickly. For that, you have my thanks.”

The man with the daggers crossed his arms over his chest. He had a bushy bronze beard, braided beneath his chin. “We’ve only done what you’ve hired us to do.”

There was something in the man’s tone. A note of condescension that made Father’s jaw flex as he raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

The same side door I’d snuck through moments ago flew open, and two guards carried in a chest so large I could have curled up inside and taken a nap. They set it in the center of the throne room, then unlatched the lid, flipping it back to reveal hundreds of Calandran coins.

It was more wealth than I’d ever seen. Enough gold and silver to feed all the mouths in Roslo for months.

A Turan warrior with smooth brown skin and deep-set dark eyes walked to the chest, crouching to inspect its contents. His black hair was braided in long rows, and the cords were tied at his nape. He picked up a single coin, flipping it in the air. It landed on the others with a clink.

Was that the Guardian?

“Should I count it, Highness?” he asked as he stood and rejoined the others.

Wait. What? Who was he calling Highness?

The warrior in the center of the line shook his head.

Except he wasn’t a warrior, was he? Was that the crown prince?

I’d never seen the Turan prince before, but he must be Zavier Wolfe.noveldrama

The heir to the Turan throne.

Mae’s soon-to-be husband.

Okay, that was a surprise. If Margot was shocked, too, she didn’t let it show. Neither did Mae. Clearly, I’d missed something by being late.

Prince Zavier was in Roslo. The Guardian was in Roslo.

What was going on? This was supposed to be a quick meeting and a chance for Father to pay the Turan rangers he’d hired. Now it was a royal introduction? Had everyone but me known about this? That explained why the Voster priest was here.

Good thing Margot had insisted on all of that grooming for Mae earlier, if this was her first face-to-face with her betrothed.

“There is no need to count the coin.” Father spoke in his cool, indifferent manner, yet the fire in his caramel eyes betrayed his appearance. “Every ounce of coin we agreed upon is there.”

The warrior who’d spoken earlier, the bearded man with the daggers, gave Father an assessing look. “And what if the price we agreed upon is no longer enough?”

It was rumored that Prince Zavier didn’t speak. If the gossip was true, then maybe that warrior spoke on his behalf, like an advisor. Or a general.

Father’s eyes blazed hotter, the amber starbursts like twin flames. “And what, exactly, is your new price?”

Before the warrior could answer, the main doors opened, capturing everyone’s attention.

The Voster priest I’d collided with earlier entered the throne room. His bare feet poked out beneath his robes, those gruesome green nails on display. But he wasn’t alone this time. Two paces behind him came another member of the brotherhood in the same burgundy robes.

This priest didn’t walk. Instead, he floated slightly above the ground like he was being carried on an invisible wind. Like gravity didn’t weigh as heavily on his body as it did everyone else’s. The nails on his hands and feet were so long they curved and curled like ribbons.

The sting of their magic was instant. The power zinged over my shoulders and down my spine. It took every bit of control not to squirm.

One Voster priest was uncomfortable. But two? It was nearly unbearable. I fought the urge to rub my arms and sprint for the door.

If Margot or Mae felt the discomfort, neither let it show.

Who was that second priest? Had he come here with the Turans? Or had he accompanied the Guardian?

The Voster couldn’t shake the earth or throw balls of fire, but they could bend and twist air and water at their will. Their blood magic was used to form unbreakable bonds. But I’d never seen one levitate before. This priest’s power felt stronger, sharper, than that from Father’s emissary.

Both Voster looked the same, hairless with that translucent skin, but this other priest seemed older. His attention, those green-black eyes, drifted to me, lingering for just a moment, before he shifted his focus over his shoulder to the doors.

Tension coiled in the room, and as my gaze followed his, my heart climbed into my throat.

The man who entered next didn’t look like a god incarnate. He didn’t appear to be a ghost. He was tall and broad, like the other Turans. Muscled to the point of distraction. His chocolate-brown hair tickled the tops of his shoulders, and his chiseled jaw was covered in a short beard of the same shade.

At first glance, he was just a man. Striking. Intimidating. But still, just a man.

Yet his irises did not have the typical Turan green starburst. They were solid, molten silver. Liquid metal. Colorless, like my dress.

The Guardian.

The pounding of his boots matched the rhythm of my thundering pulse as he followed the Voster. Unlike the Turans, he wore no weapons, no sword or knives. Maybe Father had insisted he come to this meeting unarmed, yet I had a feeling he could kill us all with his bare hands.

The way he’d murdered Banner’s brother. Hands tight around a throat until the windpipe was crushed.

My eyes darted to my fiancé’s. There was murder in Banner’s gaze. His hatred of the Guardian was as potent as the scent of my hair dye. But Goddess Carine must have heard our prayers for peace, because he kept his temper leashed, standing stoically at Father’s side like the dutiful general he was.

I wasn’t in love with Banner. I wasn’t particularly excited about becoming the wife of a man under my father’s thumb. But I didn’t want to see him hanged for treason, either.

The Voster priests came to a stop, together and apart from everyone else. They were their own group in this strange ordeal, like Margot, Mae, and me.

The Guardian did not join them. Instead, the Turan line parted as he approached, making space for him beside Prince Zavier.

The room stilled and quieted. The tension was so thick it was difficult to breathe. The magic made my head ache.

One meeting. We only had to survive this one meeting of nonsense. Then Banner could excuse himself before that throbbing vein at his temple popped. And I could sneak away to my rooms, where I’d stay until the Turans and Voster left Roslo.

I leaned forward, risking another glance at my sister.

A smile toyed on her pretty lips. From the outside, it appeared modest and sweet. I knew better. There was cunning in her blue eyes, like she was in on a secret no one had bothered to share with me.

Mae loved secrets. Add in a solid dose of conflict and a dash of bloodlust, and she was happy.

Was it her nature? Or was it her upbringing?

As a child, Margot had given me dolls to celebrate my birthdays. When Mae had turned five, Father had gifted her a set of gilded blades.

She’d fit in with these Turan warriors, wouldn’t she? With this prince? Mae had inherited Father’s strong frame and Margot’s height. Eighteen years of training had sharpened her into a weapon. The Turans wouldn’t break Mae.

Perhaps Father was counting on it being the other way around.

“Where were we?” Father asked. “You had a concern about your price? How can we resolve this?”

Um…

Was he pandering to the Turans? Because that sounded like pandering. And my father did not pander.

He’d let that ranger’s comment about counting the coin slide without a sharp retort. And now he was asking how he could resolve a concern?

Mae had learned her cunning from his instruction, so what was really happening? There was more going on here than a king hiring mercenaries.

“Introductions. Before we continue.” The levitating Voster priest spoke, his voice like silk.

I’d never heard a priest speak before. I’d expected a grating noise, a tone as spiky as their power. But it was like music, soft and entrancing. The sound of a siren singing you to sleep before they swallowed you whole.

At his command, the attention of the men shifted in our direction. Five pairs of Turan eyes with green starbursts in their irises dragged over Margot and Mae while the Guardian’s silver gaze locked on me instead. It was as uncomfortable as the Voster magic.

Father gave Margot a nod.

She put her hand on Mae’s lower back, and together, they walked toward the Turans with me trailing a step behind.

The Turan in the center of the group wore a circlet across his forehead. The band wasn’t inlaid with jewels or gems. It was a twist of metal threads, woven together to form a line of silver.

His brown hair was shorter than any of the others’, the soft waves pushed away from his face, the ends curling slightly at his nape. The sides of his crown disappeared beneath the strands at his ears. A small scar cut through one of his eyebrows. His eyes were the color of moss on a stormy day. The shade nearly swallowed the green starbursts in his irises.

Prince Zavier was handsome. Stunning, really, with a robust masculinity. And he was bored. There wasn’t a hint of interest at meeting his future bride.

At any moment, I expected to see him yawn.

The Guardian, however, looked amused, like this was all a joke. His eyes crinkled at the sides as he smirked.

What was funny? What was I missing?

“Prince Zavier, I present to you my daughter Mae,” Father said. “In accord with the Shield of Sparrows, she is to be your bride on the autumnal equinox in three months’ time.”

Zavier studied Mae for a long moment, then glanced to the Guardian.

An unspoken conversation passed between them. Was that one of the Guardian’s powers? Could he read minds?

Well, if he could read mine…

Go away. Please and thank you.

The Guardian gave the prince a nod, then spoke in a gravelly voice that gave me goose bumps. “Not her.”

Margot blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Her.” The Guardian’s eyes flicked in my direction, and the whole room followed his gaze.

To me.

“Prince Zavier will marry her,” he declared. “Tonight. As the bride prize for killing your marroweels.”