Bianca ran
through the corridors of the palace in Inisle. Courtiers’ startled faces
flashed by her as she barreled past them or dodged around those who failed to
spring out of her way. Her silk slippers made no sound on the heavy pile of the
carpet, and more than one lord never knew she was there until she darted ahead
of him, silently intent on her goal. They were left behind, staring at the old
leather satchel that jostled against her shoulder blades.

When she
reached her destination she came to an abrupt stop. A guard was posted next to
the door, his ornamental spear slanted across it in a silent but clear message.
Bianca wasn’t surprised. She knew what orders the king would have given, but
she also knew the man standing before her inside the richly enameled armor. So
she continued forward, coming to a halt just in front of him.

His face
tightened.

“Lady Nieve—”

Bianca cut
him off with a gentle gesture. “How is your daughter, Patrick?”

“She’s doing
much better, my lady. My wife and I offer our heartfelt thanks.” Bianca could
see the honest gratitude mixed with wariness in his eyes.

“Has the
fever returned?”

“Only once,
and much lower. We gave her the tea again, as you suggested, and now she’s on
the mend.”

“I’m so
glad.” She truly was relieved that his daughter was healing well. The girl had
been wretchedly sick by the time Patrick’s wife had come to find Bianca,
begging for help. Bianca knew her position at court made them hesitant to ask
for her help, but still…

She placed
her hand gently on his gauntlet, and looked at him seriously. “Please, Patrick,
if she’s ever sick again, don’t wait so long to fetch me. I’m more than willing
to help in any way I can.”

“I’ll
remember that, my lady.” He gave her a brief but heartfelt smile.

“Now, I’m
afraid I have another patient to see.”

“I can’t let
you in, Lady Nieve.”

She ignored
what he called her, instead focusing on her very real need to be allowed into
the chamber beyond. “Patrick, please. She needs my help.”

“His
majesty—”

“Doesn’t
have to know I was here.” She gazed up at the guardsman, knowing he hated this
situation as much as she did. She could see the conflicting emotions on his
face. “I swear, I will never tell. And I’ll leave before the shift changes.
Please,” she begged, “open the door.”

Patrick took
a long look up and down the empty hallway. Then he sighed, and squared his
shoulders, jerking the ceremonial spear out of her way. “Of course, my lady.”
His eyes were still worried, but he nodded resolutely and pulled a key from his
pocket, handing it to her.

“Thank you,
Patrick.”

Bianca
unlocked the door and gave the key back to him. Then she cracked the door just
enough to slip through, and shut it silently behind her. The room was dim, and
it took a moment for her mind to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. The
lavishly appointed chamber was strewn with feathers and cotton batting,
remnants from the shredded bed. The furniture was upended, and the dainty
carved chairs had been smashed to pieces, along with the exquisitely gilded
writing desk. The fire was smoldering dankly, and Bianca could see a dark
liquid had puddled on the edge of the hearth, next to the shattered remains of
what had previously been a beautiful glass inkwell. And everything, simply
everything, was covered in small, tattered pieces of paper.

The
destruction was shocking, but it was nothing compared to the sight of the woman
sitting amongst the ruins of her quarters.

Isabelle
Alaine, Queen of Albion, was a beaten, bloody mess. The skin was split open
above her right cheekbone, and blood had poured down her face. Her eye above
the rupture was swollen shut, while the other was full of agonized pain. Her
bottom lip was cracked and bleeding, and Bianca could see more blood oozing
from the corners of her mouth, where Isabelle’s teeth must have cut into the
tender flesh on her inner cheek. As bad as her face was, Bianca was more
concerned about the damage to the rest of the Queen’s body. Her neck and wrists
looked like they had been rubbed raw, and Bianca was willing to bet she would
find similar marks on Isabelle’s ankles. Her formerly regal gown had been
ripped open in the back; the tight sleeves were the only thing holding it on
her body. Bianca eased closer to her friend and winced when she drew close
enough to see the wreckage that had been made of Isabelle’s back. Long,
parallel sets of gashes tore the skin, each set crossed by another set, and
another, and another. What little skin remained unbroken was red and swollen,
puffing up angrily between the cruel slashes.

Bianca
swallowed, trying to force her voice out through the lump in her throat. “Isabelle…”

“He found
out.” The Queen’s voice was rough, but Bianca understood her. “I don’t know
how, but he found out. He wanted me to tell him how I’m passing information to
the rebels.”

“You didn’t
tell him.” It wasn’t a question. Bianca knew that Isabelle would never turn on
the people who had aided her all these years. The Queen had built an extensive
network of men and women, brave folk who risked their own safety to help
others. They dedicated themselves to Isabelle’s work out of duty, but they were
also fiercely loyal to her, partly because they knew she would never betray
them. The destruction around her suddenly made sense. Brannon must have torn
Isabelle’s rooms apart, looking for answers.

“He beat you
for your defiance?”

“Perhaps.”
Isabelle sighed in weariness. “Perhaps he just wanted to do it. Once I would
have known my cousin well enough to say, but now…” She trailed off. “I can no
longer tell what is ruthlessness, and what is the growing madness.”

Bianca felt
fear well up, but it was familiar to her, and she pushed it aside. It wouldn’t
help now. She focused on helping her friend instead, using gentle hands and a
calm, soothing voice.

“Come on,
Isabelle. I’ve got to see to your back. Some of these cuts are deep.”

“You shouldn’t
be here.” The words came out as a groan, as Isabelle tried to stand and had to
be half-carried by Bianca. “He’ll be furious if he finds out you came to me.”

Bianca knew
the truth of that, and inwardly quailed. Still, she tried to speak bravely. “He’s
been furious with me since the day he brought me here.” She settled Isabelle on
the remains of the bed. “I’m used to his rage.”

“I don’t
want you to suffer for my sake.”

“When you
suffer for the sake of so many?” Bianca kissed her friend gently on her
unmarred cheek. “I will help you, Isabelle, and if he finds out I will take my
punishment. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Bianca moved
slowly and carefully, extricating Isabelle from the ruins of her dress. She
found the wash basin—miraculously unbroken—and poured a few drops of chamomile
oil into some clear, cold water. Then, using a clean cloth, she dribbled the
infused water over Isabelle’s back, never touching the wounds directly, letting
the chamomile help ease the pain.

Isabelle
hissed when the first drops ran along the rents in her flesh, but she held
still. By the time her back was thoroughly soaked, some of the tension had gone
out of her shoulders. Bianca grabbed a small crockery jar from her leather
satchel and uncorked it. The scent of lemon and honey filled the room, and
Isabelle sighed.

“You have to
put it on, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t
have to,” Bianca spoke hesitantly, “but I’m afraid you might get an infection
if I don’t. Is it too much for you?”

“No, dear.”
Bianca didn’t know how, but Isabelle managed to sound faintly amused, despite
her obvious pain. “Go ahead and do what you think best. I’ll try to hold still.”

Bianca was
swift and gentle, but still a fine sheen of sweat had broken out on Isabelle’s
forehead by the time each cut was coated with the unguent. Bianca used more of
the chamomile water to bathe Isabelle’s face, and then dabbed the cream on the
cuts along her friend’s cheekbone and lip. She pulled a different crock—this
one smelling of lavender—out of her bag to treat the chafed places on Isabelle’s
neck, wrists, and ankles, and finally she helped the Queen into a comfortable
position on her stomach. The mattress had been shredded, but there were enough
blankets in the room to make a soft pile for Isabelle to lie down on.

“I wish I
could move you to another room.”

“Alas, might
as well wish for the moon, or a fairy prince to save us all.”

Bianca
looked down at Isabelle, who was well on her way to falling asleep. The older
woman had taken a savage beating, and it would take weeks for her body to mend,
even if she was given skillful care the entire time. Gazing around at the room,
Bianca doubted that Brannon would allow her that type of care. She shivered as
she thought of the king; of his vicious rage and ever-increasing lack of
control. The madness of an ordinary man was bad enough, but the madness of a
king…

Bianca held
herself tightly with both arms, trying to keep from flying to pieces.

She didn’t think
even a fairy prince could save them all from this.

Chapter 2

The throne
room was deadly silent as the court assembled. The peers of the realm knew that
something momentous had happened, and with each passing moment the tension in
the room grew, until Bianca could hardly breathe. She stood in her place at the
foot of the dais, with no idea of what the king intended, praying that Isabelle
was not going to be dragged before them and charged with treason.

When King
Brannon Uriens finally appeared and ascended to the throne, Bianca felt her
heart rise up in her throat. She wanted to turn and run from the room, but
instead she stayed where she was and buried her hands in her skirts so that she
could clench them tight. She didn’t dare betray her fear in any other way. If
she did not bear up well in court, Brannon would punish her for it later.

The king
settled on his cold marble seat, and looked out at the realm’s nobility, a
nasty smile on his face. Bianca knew firsthand the enjoyment he got from tormenting
others. She could only imagine how much pleasure he would get seeing the peers
of the realm huddled below him in nervous fear. He seemed to savor it a moment,
and then gave a casual wave of his hand.

Sir Miles
stepped to the foot of the dais, a few feet out from where Bianca stood. Though
Brannon had insisted on knighting him, no one considered Miles a true knight.
He was the king’s hatchet man, willing and able to do the most foul of tasks
without a second thought. He was universally reviled by the nobility, but also
universally feared.

“Your
majesty,” Miles said, “it is my pleasure to bring before the throne the
treasonous snake who has been passing royal secrets to the rebels.” He waved
his hand, and two of the king’s private guards began carrying a limp form to
the front of the room. The poor woman drooped between them, obviously unable to
walk.

Bianca
thought she would faint, or go mad. Her knees trembled, and hidden away in the
folds of her skirt, her hands clenched so tightly she was sure her nails were
cutting into her palm.

The prisoner
lifted her head, and Bianca held back a gasp of surprise, snapping her jaw shut
on the inhalation. It wasn’t Isabelle, but it was someone Bianca knew. The
woman, despite her swollen face, was still recognizable. She was one of
Isabelle’s chambermaids—a pretty thing who had a knack for cleaning velvet. Her
name was Alice, and she was sweet and soft-spoken. More importantly, Bianca
knew for a fact that she had nothing to do with Isabelle’s spy network.

When she was
close enough to the throne to be heard, she began speaking, and though tears
rolled down her face, her voice was clear.

“Your
majesty, it isn’t true. It isn’t true. I never committed treason; I never
would. Please, please your majesty, I don’t know who spoke against me, but I
didn’t, I wouldn’t, I never—”

Miles
reached over and grabbed her hair in his fist, yanking her head up. Her voice
cut off with a whimper of pain.

“Silence,
woman.” Brannon’s eyes glittered. “We have no time for your lies.” He paused,
watching the chambermaid sob softly, then cast his gaze out over the throne
room. “Let it be known that any and all traitors living in our midst will be
found and questioned.” Alice’s pitiful state left no doubt about the method of
questioning that would be used. “The only way to avoid this fate is to come
forward, beg pardon, and be given a chance to help us root out the rest of the
rebels. The crown will offer mercy to those who sincerely repent and offer us
aid.”

The king
surveyed the room, gauging the court’s reaction to his announcement. His eyes
passed for a moment over his illegitimate daughter, and the cold light of
calculation that always lurked in their depths surfaced. He knew that she and
Isabelle were close. He must have known that Bianca knew who the real traitor
was, and must have wondered if she would let that information spill. She tried
to meet his gaze calmly, but as always, her heart shriveled beneath his stare.
She focused desperately on the poor, weeping woman who lay near her feet.

She didn’t
know what to do. Alice was innocent of any betrayal, and Brannon surely knew
it. He was just using her—using her to hurt Isabelle, using her to send a
message to the real informants, and using her to shake the confidence of the
rebels. Bianca felt torn apart. Alice needed someone to defend her, but if
Bianca spoke up…

She looked
at the king. She was afraid of him, as she was afraid of nothing else in this
world. Her father. High King of the noble nation of Toldas, Protector of the
Elissian sanctuary, and Knight Paramount of the realm, but an evil man—corrupt
on the inside. She trembled at the thought of defying him, but Bianca knew she
couldn’t allow her fear to stop her from helping Alice.

When she
opened her mouth to speak, the king saw her.

“You’ll want
to keep your mouth shut, little maid.” He leaned close to the quietly sobbing
chambermaid, and spoke to her in a voice that just barely carried to Bianca’s
ears. “If people got it into their heads that you weren’t really a spy, I’d
have to let you go. And all sorts of unpleasant things can happen to a young
woman when she’s cast out, on her own.”

His eyes met
Bianca’s, viciously amused, and she snapped her mouth shut. Of course. If
Bianca spoke up and told the truth, Brannon would be forced to release Alice.
But once she was free, he would send someone after her. Eventually her body
would be found, beaten beyond recognition, and no one would be able to link it
back to the king. Bianca felt sick as she realized she could do nothing to help
the woman. The best she could do was not make it any worse.

Brannon
stood straight once more and addressed the throne room. “This woman is remanded
to the custody of Sir Miles, who has agreed to take charge of the investigation
into her treason. We charge you to go out and spread word of what has happened
here, that all who oppose our rightful rule may know it, and be brought to
justice.”

Miles
gestured to his lackeys, and they dragged Alice out through the narrow aisle
that parted for them, as the king climbed back to his marble throne.

A short
cornet call signaled the end of the audience, and the peers began to file out,
whispering to themselves. Bianca stayed where she was. She was expected to
remain until the throne room emptied, just one of the many rules Brannon had
set for her.

The room was
slow to empty, and Miles took a few steps over so that he could speak with
Bianca in low tones.

“I know we
can count on you to tell the queen why she’s missing her chambermaid, can’t we,
my lady?” He smirked knowingly at her, and Bianca wanted to scream. She had no
doubt he’d taken part in Alice’s beating. For that matter, he had probably been
there when Brannon had beaten Isabelle. She felt sick, forced to stand and
listen to this vile, despicable man.

He dropped his
voice even lower. “Do tell Isabelle that I hope she holds out for a while. I’m
having such fun with young Alice. You won’t forget to pass that along, will
you, Nieve?”

Bianca felt
anger boiling up inside her. Anger at this loathsome man, anger at her father’s
evil, and anger at herself for her weak, powerless position. The anger consumed
her, and for once she spoke without thinking, her voice carrying clearly in the
almost empty throne room.

“My name is
Bianca.”

She heard
the words leave her mouth, and she couldn’t believe she’d uttered them. Her
anger turned to horror and she froze, wishing she could take it back, but
knowing she’d been heard. Sir Miles and the few remaining nobles stared, and
the king slowly swiveled his head in her direction.

“What was
that, daughter?”

She didn’t
look directly at him. She was afraid she’d cry. But from the corner of her eye,
she saw him rise and stalk down the stairs. He stopped in front of her, and
though he didn’t touch her, menace radiated from him. She had just uttered her
only defiance right on the heels of his moment of triumph, and he was going to
make her regret it.

“Nieve, what
did you say?”

“Your
majesty,” she whispered, barely able to force out the words, “I only meant—”

“You meant
that you don’t care for the name I’ve given you.” He said it lightly, almost
teasingly. “You prefer that vulgar, plebeian name your mother gave you when you
were born.”

“It is all I
have left of her, your majesty. All I have to remember her by.” She spoke
softly, but still, everyone heard. The remaining court was eavesdropping with
fearful fascination.

“But, Nieve,”
replied Brannon, false kindness dripping from every word, “your mother was a
whore. Why would you want to remember your whore of a mother?”

Dead silence
reigned. Bianca felt tears standing in her eyes and tried to hold them back.
The king waited, anticipation lighting his face. He wanted to see her cry,
wanted to enjoy the tears she shed for the mother she’d lost.

“Your
majesty?” The tense moment was broken by an elderly courtier. He had been a
member of the peerage since Bianca’s grandfather, Andras Lodney, ruled Toldas.
Under King Lodney he had been an influential figure at court, but Brannon didn’t
care for the same honest discourse that Lodney had treasured. Marquise Barclay,
and others like him, had lost much of their standing, but they were too well
placed to be forced out altogether. Still, there was little they could do to
influence Brannon’s rule of the realm. The marquise tried to choose little
moments when he could make a difference.

Apparently
he thought this was one of those moments.

“Your
majesty,” Barclay repeated, “may I have the pleasure of escorting your daughter
to her quarters? I wish to ask her advice on my granddaughter’s upcoming
season.” He gazed guilelessly at the king, for all the world as if he had not
just come to Bianca’s rescue.

Brannon’s
eyes narrowed, and his face flushed red. He opened his mouth and then snapped
it shut again, glaring at the realm’s peers. Bianca knew that the presence of
such witnesses was all that kept him from lashing out at the old man. Once, Brannon
would have covered his rage with a glib tongue and smooth diversion, but his
self-control was slipping. He didn’t hit the marquise, but he leveled a look of
such malice at the man that Barclay retreated a step, anyway.

“You may do
whatever you wish with my daughter.” Brannon’s voice was a whipcrack, and
Bianca flinched. “After I am done speaking with her. In private.” He punctuated
his last words with another glare around the room. “All of you, you are
dismissed. I wish to speak with Nieve alone. And then,” he said, oozing foul
innuendo, “she will be utterly at your disposal, Marquise, for whatever small
service you may require.” His downward flick of the eyes left no doubt as to
what he was implying.

Barclay
turned red at the king’s insinuation. With his back ramrod straight he made a
short, choppy bow, and then turned to leave with the rest of the nobles. The
only softening in his mein came when he looked at Bianca. Regret and pity
flashed briefly across his face, and then he was gone, along with everyone
else.

The door
thudded shut behind the last pair of prying eyes, and Brannon was released from
his only constraint. His hand flew through the air, smashing into Bianca’s
face. Her blood pounded in her ears and her cheek throbbed, but there was no
time to react to the pain. Her father’s hands closed with bruising force around
her upper arms, and yanked her forward so that he could snarl in her face.

“How dare
you?” His voice was harsh, and his eyes wide and wild. “Do you think I don’t
see what you’re doing?”

“I… I’m
sorry, father… I won’t ever use that name again.” Bianca stammered, trying to
placate him. He had never reacted so violently about her name before.

“Do you
think I care about your foolish little rebellion concerning your name?!” He
thundered at her, then sneered in disdain. “Rest assured, all you do when you
insist on that base, common name is remind everyone of your heritage. Of that
slut who carried you in her belly.” He yanked her around and held her chin so
that she was forced to look up at the dais. His fingers bit cruelly into her
jaw, while his voice hissed in her ear. “I sit on that throne, certainly, but
no one forgets where the rest of your blood came from. You will never sit
there. Never.” He jerked her back around to face him. “No matter how many
courtiers you cozen.”

He threw her
violently aside, and she collapsed against the marble floor. Then the king
strode away, his boot heels clicking on the shining black surface, without ever
looking back to see where his daughter fell.

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