A Vow So Bold and Deadly (The Cursebreaker Series Book 3)

“Again,” says the scraver, and despite the icy chill in the twilight air, I have to swipe sweat from my eyes. I’m breathing harder than I do after a long bout of swordplay or drills.

Honestly, I’d rather be doing swordplay or drills. It’s been weeks of this. “I hate magic,” I mutter under my breath.

“Yet you expect to coax it to your will with such adoring words? Again.”

I give him a narrow glare, but then I crouch and touch a hand to the ground, trying to send my power into an ever-widening circle. Some aspects of magic have come easily, like drawing flame from the wick of a lamp, while others have been more difficult, like knitting skin back together to heal. But sending power away from myself is proving the most challenging of all. It feels like running in an infinite number of directions at once—while tied to a boulder. Like I’m trying to tear myself apart and hold myself together simultaneously.

We’re in the woods beyond the training fields, and snow flurries drift through the branches overhead, collecting in the grass between my fingers. My power feels each one strike the ground as I try to let my magic expand. I feel each blade of grass, each fallen branch. The warmth of the lone lamp I set near the base of a tree, which was unnecessary when we began but is now casting thin shadows along the ground. I achieve ten feet. Twelve. A hare leaps into a thicket, and I send my power to follow.

My power snaps back to me. It’s like being shot with an arrow. I rock back and sit down hard.

I sigh.

Iisak drifts down from the high branch where he’d taken roost, landing silently in front of me. He’s barefoot and bare-chested as usual, his dark gray skin like a shadow in the darkness, but knife-lined bracers are buckled to his forearms. Snow is collecting in the black hair that curls to his shoulders, drifting across the stretches of his wings.

“You run yourself too thin, young prince,” he says.

I grunt. Maybe I do. But right now, I’d rather rely on skills I know will protect me in a battle than skills I haven’t yet mastered.

“This should be effortless,” he presses. “You should spend fewer hours on the field with your soldiers and more—”

“More here in the woods with magic?” I give a humorless laugh and spring to my feet. “Reports say that Rhen has sent soldiers to the border, and my magic can’t stop them all. Spending less time on the fields isn’t the answer.”

“If you reached for your magic before reaching for a blade, perhaps you would not need to worry.”

“Everyone here in Syhl Shallow thinks magic is a threat,” I snap. “There are secret factions in the city that plot the queen’s death.”

“I believe they plot your death.”

“Ah. That’s better.” I scowl. Iisak would have me practice magic until dawn if he had his way. I sometimes wonder if he is so focused on our success here because he regrets his failures with his son, the long-lost aelix of Iishellasa. I wonder if he dotes on Tycho and lectures me in an attempt to fill a chasm of loss. Right now, I don’t care. This lesson in magic reminds me of the way I drove Solt through his drill, and it’s not a fond memory. We’ve been at this for hours, and I was exhausted before we even started.

I nod at the knives Iisak wears. “I’m done with this. It’s your turn.”

“I hate weapons,” he growls, and I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or if he’s serious.

“Come on,” I say. “I’ve already missed dinner.” He’s pretty lethal on his own, and I’ve seen him tear soldiers apart with his bare hands. But that all requires close proximity, and he was captured once before. A bow and arrows proved too cumbersome in flight, but the knives and bracers don’t slow him down.

Like me with the magic, he’s reluctant to practice with something that doesn’t feel natural.

He slips a blade free. “One would think your mood would improve from all the time you spend with the young queen, but—”

“Knives, Iisak.”

“Perhaps you should spend more time sleeping, instead of—”

Silver hell. I draw one of my own blades and throw it at him.

He leaps into the air, quicker than thought, and my knife drives into the ground a few feet beyond where he stood. He laughs, and a bitter wind tears through the small clearing. His wings flare, sending snow flurries spinning, but I catch a flash of light on steel an instant before he throws. I snatch my dagger and knock the knife away before it can embed itself in my shoulder, and I almost miss the second one that aims for my leg. It nicks my thigh and skitters into the underbrush.

I gather the knives from the ground. “You’ve been practicing.”

“Quite a bit,” he says. “Tycho is eager to have a student.”

Tycho. My irritation is happy to have a new target. Tycho missed drills again this afternoon. It’s the fifth time. His unit leader should be dealing with it, but she hasn’t, and I’m not sure if that’s out of some kind of deference to me or if they’re happy to let him fail. Either way, it’s one more fracture in the unity of the army here, and it’s not as if we need more. I’m glad the boy is spending time with Iisak, because he is quite noticeably dodging me.

“I didn’t know you were practicing with Tycho,” I say. I wonder if Iisak is doing it for Tycho’s benefit—or for his own.

“I am certainly not busy helping you with magic.” Iisak throws again.

I scowl and knock the blades out of the air. “Put them in a tree,” I say. “Not me.”

“You look as though you long for distraction, Your Highness.”

Maybe. Probably. The shadows are growing longer, the flakes of snow shifting to sleet that stings my cheeks. At breakfast, Lia Mara was rapt as Noah explained the reasons for the changes in the weather, how the precipitation would fall as snow thousands of feet up in the sky, and then melt and refreeze to form sleet. One of her advisors leaned toward another and whispered, “How can he know such things? I do not trust these outsiders and their magic.”

Lia Mara overheard and cut them off with a terse, “Knowledge should not be greeted with scorn. You would do well to listen to Noah.”

They silenced immediately, but I saw their exchanged glances.

Iisak’s knives drive into the tree at my back with an audible thock each time. They were good throws, the blades driven deeply into the wood. When I reach to pull them free, Iisak slams into me from the side, his claws hooking into my armor, sending me to the ground. It knocks the wind out of me, but I roll and catch his ankle so he can’t fly. He tries to claw at me, but I’m used to his antics now, and I don’t let him get in a hit.

In seconds, he’s pinned, one wing trapped under my knee, his throwing knives in my hand, one pointed at his throat. We’re both breathing hard.

I usually don’t mind sparring with him. Often I enjoy the challenge, because Iisak has no hesitation in breaking my bones and drawing my blood—along with the actual talent and skill to accomplish it.

Tonight is different. The sleet is falling harder now, stinging my eyes and creeping under my armor. Iisak probably loves it.

“If you don’t need the practice,” I say, “I’m hungry.” I all but drop the throwing knives on the center of his chest and uncurl from the ground.

He slides them into their sheaths. “As you say, Your Highness.” With a parting nod, he launches himself into the air, and in seconds, he’s lost in the swirling darkness and branches overhead, probably off to find dinner for himself. I fetch the flickering lantern and walk.

The sleet grows heavier, slicking my hair and soaking under my armor, making a racket on the tin roofs of the soldier barracks just beyond the trees. I ease out of the woods onto the path, startling the soldiers on duty, but they quickly stand at attention and salute me. It’s later than I thought if they’ve changed shifts. These two are adorned in hooded oilcloth cloaks over their armor, but it’s still a miserable assignment in this weather.

“Who is your commanding officer?” I say to them. “I’ll see that you aren’t stationed here overly long.”

They exchange a glance, trying not to shiver. “Captain Solt.”

I inwardly sigh. Of course.

The paths between the barracks are deserted because of the weather and the late hour, and I wish I had thought to bring an oilcloth cloak of my own. Lights twinkle along the wall of the palace, and I look for Lia Mara’s chambers, because I’m sure she’s waiting for me. Sure enough, a shadow darkens half her window, and lightness fills my heart for the first time today. I suddenly wish I could send magic tearing across the grounds, because I’d lace it with fierce longing and gentle wistfulness and unfettered hope, emotions I only dare to share with her.

Unbidden, my magic seeps into the ground, spreading farther with each step, almost like a light in the darkness that only I can see. I should have invited her to join me and Iisak, because her presence is always a reminder that my power never responds well to force, and instead needs to be invited to play. I feel each path, each drop of ice that strikes the ground, each stone along the base of each barrack. This has to be more than fifteen feet, but I try to relax into the feel of my magic as I walk, giving it little attention, as if it’s a skittish horse that can be spooked by nothing more than eye contact.

Then my magic flickers against … something. A person? An emotion? Whatever it is, the sensation isn’t positive like my thoughts of Lia Mara. But it’s too quick, and I can’t grab hold of it, and my sudden focus sends my magic spiraling back to me like the crack of a whip. I stay on my feet this time, but I drop the lantern and stop short. The lantern cracks with a little tinkle of glass and goes dark. I can’t hear anything over the sleet.

Immediately, I think of the threats against Lia Mara, and I change course, striding between the darkened buildings, wondering if I should call for the guards by the woods or if that would be overkill for a feeling. Still, there have been attacks on the queen. A faction against magic has formed in the city. As Iisak said, they likely plot my death as well. Just as I’m about to turn back for the guards, I hear a raised voice near the recruit barracks. A man is speaking in Syssalah, his tone thick with anger. I sigh and wonder if I’m going to have to break up a fight.

But I turn the corner and discover it’s Solt. He’s pinning a cringing recruit to the wall of the barracks with a hand against his shoulder.

Tycho.

I should demand an explanation. I should stride right up and call them to attention.

Before I’ve thought through everything I should be doing, I’ve shoved Solt away from Tycho with enough force that I nearly get him off his feet. He recovers faster than I’m ready for—I guess he can be quick when he wants to be—and he takes a swing at me. I dodge the first punch but not the second. He catches me right in the jaw, and it sends me to the ground, but I use momentum to roll. I have blades in my hands before I’m fully upright. Solt is a second slower, his hand on his hilt, his sword half-drawn before recognition dawns in his eyes.

He didn’t know who I was when he threw that punch, but he knows now.

“Stop!” Tycho is yelling. He’s got his hands up between both of us. Sleet slicks down his face. “Stop! Nah rukt!”

Don’t fight.

Solt hasn’t let that sword slide back into its sheath. He’s never liked me, and there’s a battle in his eyes as he wars with whether we should settle this right here. I’m sure he can see the same battle in my own. Blood is a sour taste in my mouth from where he hit me. He’s stronger than I gave him credit for.

But then he straightens, letting the weapon fall back into place. He glowers at me through the weather. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

For half a second, I’m irritated that he withdrew so swiftly. But now Tycho’s worried eyes are locked on me, not Solt.

I put my weapons away and spit blood at the ground. “Return to your quarters,” I snap.

Solt salutes me sharply and turns away. After a brief hesitation, Tycho does the same thing.

I catch his arm. “Not you.”

He looks up at me. When we were in Rillisk, he always seemed so much younger than fifteen, but time and experience keep whittling that away. Noah’s warnings are loud in my memories, so I say, “Are you all right?”

He seems startled, like he wasn’t expecting the question. When he tugs his arm free, I let him go, but his eyes skip away, dodging my gaze. He bites back a shiver. “I’m fine.”

“He was pinning you to the wall. What happened?”

“No—he was—it wasn’t … he wasn’t hurting me.”

The rain pours down, well and truly soaking through my armor now. I’m ice-cold, and the inviting warmth of Lia Mara’s chambers feels like it’s hours away. “Talk to me, Tycho.”

He stares back at me steadily but says nothing. A new thought curls into my brain, dark and sinister.

“Is he threatening you?” I demand. “Is he harming you in some way? Are the others taking some kind of—”

“No! Grey.” His eyes clench closed, but only for a moment, and then he squares his shoulders and looks back at me. “Captain Solt is fine. He was—he was talking to me—”

“I could hear him from two barracks away. Try again.”

When he still offers nothing, I sharpen my tone to make it an order. “Tycho. Talk.”

He does shiver now, and I’m not sure how much is the weather and how much is me, but his eyes seem to shutter a bit. “He caught me sneaking back. It was … it was a reprimand.”

I freeze. “A reprimand.”

“He said I have an obligation to support my unit. He said that my absence will cause the other recruits to think they don’t have to follow orders.” His cheeks flush. “He said that if I hold a favored position with you, that I should do my best to prove it’s earned, not given.”

Silver hell.

His eyes shy away again, and he scowls. “He said a lot of other things, but I couldn’t keep up with all the Syssalah.”

I study him, but I must be quiet a moment too long, because he finally looks back at me, and any hint of immaturity has vanished from his expression. Just contrition and a little bit of belligerence. This is a soldier looking at a commanding officer. “I won’t miss drills again.” He hesitates, then tacks on, “Your Highness.”

I almost correct him. He’s never called me that before, and I’ve certainly never demanded it. The sleet slices through the air between us, and Tycho shivers again.

“Go,” I say. “Return to your quarters.”

He salutes, then sprints across the muddy grounds until he disappears between barracks.

I glance back up at the palace. Lia Mara has disappeared from her window. I know Jake or Nolla Verin will be stationed outside her room along with her guards, so I’m not worried, simply longing for her presence. That, and dinner and a warm fire. A chance to lose this sodden armor.

Those will have to wait.

I turn away from the palace and head back along the path through the barracks.

Instead of heading toward Lia Mara, I change course to go find Captain Solt.