Roen had gazed upon the portrait many a time, though most often when she was alone in the Great Hall. Raelisanne was as striking as every tale portrayed her to be. Her hair was spun copper, held up with a silver pin away from her pale neck; her skin was like cream. Her eyes seemed to hold the faintest trace of sadness in their gray depths, but her carriage told none of it. Raelisanne wore a full-length gown of midnight blue, offset by silver earrings and a spider-web necklace that held at its center a sapphire the size of a sparrow’s egg. Her enduring countenance bespoke a woman who brooked no foolishness. Somehow, even in the most fanciful dress, Roen’s mother seemed as resolute as she was elegant.

If only two different frames could tell the same tale.

Roen stood before the frame of the standing mirror in her bedroom, just as she had done so many times before. She posed with chin high, shoulders up, a twelve-wintered girl in a woman’s cotton shift and a boy’s pantaloons, trying very hard to imagine how her mother might have tried to look at her age.

Roen frowned at the reflection. She could not imagine her mother ever looked quite so…burly. Not at any age. And though Roen was not the sort to fret before a mirror—there were much better things to do than wasting time wishing for things that could not be—it did not make certain painful truths any less apparent when thrown back by a reflective surface.

Roen’s posture was appalling for anyone born of nobility, much less a young lady. Her shoulders were too wide, her jaw too pronounced. Her brother Ralton once called her “a fine example of young masculinity.” Her face was not entirely without merit, she judged critically, though her lips seemed slightly unbalanced and oddly placed. Roen had no idea whether people judged the shape of lips.

Her light gray eyes meant she had a steadfast heart, her maidservant Amia once said. And the Northern Kingdoms prized fair skin, which hers was, indeed…unless she was out too long in the sun, which was often, and then it would turn bright pink. Or when she was embarrassed, upon which time her face reddened to highlight in bright detail every single freckle on her nose, cheeks, brow, and chin. Talcey had informed her of this quaint little effect a few years back, giggling. Roen shut him up with a hard slug to the chest, whereupon Talcey sat down, clutched his teat, and cried.

And now there was, of course, the matter of the large bruise splotched across her forehead. Roen pulled a lock of her hair, still damp from her bath, to cover the bruise, but one turn of her head exposed it again. Her lord father would certainly not be pleased by her appearance—not now, nor at any time.

She sighed, staring at the rough girl in the mirror. No, she was not her mother.

In truth, Roen had given up imagining herself as Raelisanne. More often, she would instead picture her mother standing behind her in the mirror. Lady ven Dorn looked exactly as she did in the portrait, wearing the same beautiful blue dress. Raelisanne did not speak to Roen in these wistful little fantasies…but her lips offered the slightest of encouraging smiles, and the trace of sadness in her eyes was replaced by a small measure of pride.

Roen tried to picture her mother standing behind her now, but that proved too difficult a task. Somehow, she did not think her mother would look with approval upon her young daughter going to dinner with a strange boy who, if Doryan was being truthful, might attempt to marry her soon.

Father cannot hope that I will marry this boy, she kept telling herself. Marriage would be expected of her one day, of course, but this soon? There would be a long betrothal, surely. But for how long? And why this boy? Questions—there were so many! Her mind raced with a hundred she had never thought to ask anyone before.

With any luck, the Vertaens would take one look at her and hate her. But what of the next family they bring? And the next? If her father was truly intent on marrying her off…

She despaired that he may simply be looking for the quickest way to be rid of her. Doryan ven Dorn did not show the barest affection for any of his sons. Why should he for his daughter?

And why should he even care what Roen wanted in a marriage?

Deep down, Roen already knew what she wanted for herself: not some randomly arranged union, but rather her parents’ tale of love. She wanted to find someone who would run with her, ride horses with her; someone who would understand her, respect her, and love her so fiercely they would—

Roen felt a twinge of guilt. A fierce love was what she had always pictured her mother and father to have, taken from the bits she had heard. She knew the beginning of her parents’ story, as well as its tragic end. She too often focused on the beginning.

But she could not simply ignore the end. The end of her mother’s life was the beginning of her own. Was there any reason why her father should not spite her?

The portrait of her mother told many tales. The Knightlord had commissioned it a few short months following their marriage, gifting it to her on the occasion of their first wedding anniversary. Roen’s mother, it was said, resisted her husband’s desire to hang it in the entry foyer, and an eventual compromise led to its current place of honor in the Great Hall.

It was whispered of that dark, fateful night of Raelisanne’s passing—with wind and rain lashing the windows and walls, lightning splitting the air—that no tempest could rival Doryan’s rage. Some of the longer-tenured servants still spoke in hushed tones of it, how the Knightlord had swept through Dorn Keep, a blazing torch in hand. Their words painted the picture of an inconsolable, grief-stricken man laying waste to every item that might bring reminders of her. Gifted pieces of art and jewelry, lacquered chests and gilded boxes; bedding, silks, clothing of every fashion from across the Ten Kings…

Everything that reminded him of her burned. Raelisanne was gone. Doryan the Elder was intent to let naught of her remain.

They said his last stop was before the portrait. They said he came close to setting it ablaze with the same torch he had gutted Dorn Keep’s entire west turret with, but that he hesitated, tear-filled eyes raised as if in supplication. Doryan ven Dorn could not burn it, they said; he cast the torch aside and finally let rage give way to grief, sparing that final reminder of his wife’s great beauty.

There were many things Roen could not imagine her stoic father doing. Giving in to grief was one of them. To her, the Knightlord had always been a harsh and imposing man.

But it was that very tale that gave Roen hope.

Mother, love set you by Father’s side, she thought, an odd sort of rare and silent prayer. If he could give his heart to you…could he not give a small part of it to the small part of you that remains?

She only wanted him to see her.

It was Roen’s deepest hope. She needed to earn her father’s regard, needed to prove to herself that Raelisanne’s death had not been completely in vain. Else…

She was determined not to give in to those sorts of thoughts. She was a Dorn. And though she was at odds with the very idea of being paraded before a boy, she would do her duty to her family.

Roen’s brow knit in grim concentration. She shifted her stance, shoulders back. It gave her some semblance of a bust…though that, to her consternation, might have been described as masculine as well. She scowled. She was twelve. That anyone might expect her to even have a bust was an irritating idea unto itself.

Duty, Faith, Honor, and Justice. Duty was the first word, as it had always been. It had always meant “Duty to House Dorn.”

Her thoughts flew to her brother, Andric. He had done his duty. Andric was Raelisanne’s only son, the closest to his sister in age, nearly two winters Roen’s senior. For the last three he had been away, schooling at Bastion, the prestigious Zhadran academy.

“You will be a knight, or you will not be my son,” Doryan the Elder had said. Andric hated the very thought of leaving. He was a sweet, good-natured boy; an artist and a poet and woefully clumsy, his long limbs in constant threat of tangling. They both knew Bastion would not treat him well. And it had not.

But he is not dead, Roen reminded herself. She needed to get that letter back.

A familiar knock sounded at her door, startling Roen from her thoughts.

She crossed her room and opened the door, admitted her maidservant Amia. Amia was a southern Marcana from Aragonis, petite and olive skinned, dark of hair and eyes. She was considered by far the prettiest girl in Dorn’s employ—no doubt one of the reasons she had been selected as Roen’s maidservant. Her family had perhaps hoped a bit of Amia’s prettiness might rub off. Alas.

Amia glanced about the room, her face betraying its usual dismay at the condition of Roen’s living space. It was an admitted mess; Roen’s bed was unmade, furs and wool blankets a chaotic mass at the foot. This morning’s riding leathers lay in a rumpled pile atop. More than a few straws of stable hay lay scattered about, lending to what Ralton once referred to as a “barn-like environ.” A jumble of clothes had seemingly been thrown about the room by gale-force winds; riding leggings, boots, breeches, underthings, tunics, shirts, and cloaks of various length and make were hung on her room’s sparse decor, draped over chests of drawers, splayed across various small pieces of furniture, or dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

Amia had never hid her discontent that Roen preferred breeches over bell gowns, but in truth Roen had no choice. Most of her wardrobe had been handed down from her brothers, after all. She had never wanted girls’ clothes anyway. Skirts only hindered riding, and the petticoats that came with them were usually itchy.

Amia would have cleaned the room herself, many times over, had Roen not forbade it. Hers was an organized mess, she would argue aloud, though mostly did not like the thought of anyone waiting on her—partly because she saw herself as self-reliant, and partly because she was too impatient to wait for anything. Servants were slow. Rarely did they run anywhere unless spurred to do so. Roen ran wherever and whenever she could.

And she did not need help drawing baths or braiding her hair or dressing herself, either. Well, usually. Tonight was going to be different. Tonight…

Tonight would require a dress. Roen grit her teeth at the thought.

Amia set down the small bundle of cloth she was carrying and eyed Roen up and down. Roen knew what was coming already; Amia clicked her tongue at Roen’s pantaloons.

“Fine,” Roen muttered. She knew she could not wear them underneath a dress. Roen stepped out of her pantaloons, grumbling. She felt naked without them, even though the hem of her shift fell to her knees.

Amia said nothing, and simply held up a dress of thin-weave wool dyed light green. It had fluted sleeves and golden diamonds embroidered on the bodice. Roen shook her head. She had played this game before; this would be the first of many gowns.

Or so she thought. When Roen waved it away, Amia winced.

“I am sorry, dora, that is all I have for you,” Amia murmured, eyes downcast.

Roen looked at her. “Last year for Festival you had nine dresses to show.” Roen declined to mention she had not actually worn any of the dresses at Festival. It was generally understood—by Amia most of all—that the Knightlord’s daughter did not willingly wear dresses. But it was Amia’s duty to show them anyway.

Amia kept her eyes downcast. “They have made nothing more after last year, my lady.”

Roen knew that much was likely true. The Knightlord was not the sort of man who went out of his way to purchase clothes—feminine attire especially. That was the groom’s job, and Dorn Keep’s last groom had been dead a year. No one had thought to replace him yet.

Amia continued, quieter, “And you have…” she paused before saying, “grown.” She quickly murmured an apology. Aragoni girls were prized for being small.

Roen scowled. It was a fact that she had grown, but there had never been a point in her life when she did not want to grow. She wanted to catch her brothers, wanted to have a chance at winning anything she might contest. She wanted to be a knight.

But tonight would be a completely different sort of challenge—one Roen knew she was woefully unsuited for.

“Perhaps a corset,” Amia said helpfully.

Roen had no idea what a corset was. It sounded vaguely equestrian. But if Amia was recommending it, Roen seriously doubted it would aid in horseback.

She grabbed up the green gown and held it out to her maidservant.

“Just help me into this,” Roen muttered.
 
 
 

 
 
        Roen hurried down the narrow back hallway that skirted the main dining hall and the kitchen, trying not to trip over the lengths of green-dyed wool and pale flax that shushed and whispered around her ankles. She held the skirts up with both hands in order to make her way faster. She lamented that she had ever agreed to wear such small shoes.

Dinner had been moved to the small dining room on the second floor. The Knightlord had declined to partake—had in fact decided the affair should be more intimate—and was instead sending Doryan the Younger to act as sole chaperone.

“This should go wonderfully,” Roen muttered to herself. Doryan’s arrogance was barely restrained in the presence of their father; Roen had no idea what sort of damage he could wreck in a room alone with her and two western nobles.

Granted, Doryan had escorted them here, so by rights they should be familiar to his ways by now. Their retinue had spent numerous days with her brother on the road already; first impressions were done. There was a strong likelihood the Vertaens had already made up their minds about him—as well as the whole of their family.

Roen only hoped it might work to her benefit, seeing as how she did not actually want to be betrothed.

But she did not trust Doryan not to sabotage something, somehow, some way…or at the very least influence events so that the outcome favored him. He would not have her best interests at heart. The only saving grace Roen had was their father’s instructions, whatever they were. Doryan the Younger would never outright defy the Knightlord.

She only wished she knew what her father’s instructions had been. Roen had too many questions to ask, and no one to put them to. She raced around a corner, heading for the back stairs that led to the small dining hall—

She nearly collided with a man at the base of the stairs. Roen stopped so fast her feet slipped out from under her. Only her quick right hand grabbing a torch sconce, stuck into the rough wall, saved her from a spill.

Roen righted herself slowly. Her first instinct was to apologize to the man, but she reminded herself that she was playing the lady this eve. A gentleman should apologize to her.

After a long, silent moment, she realized that was not going to happen. The man simply stared at her, reticent, with the darkest eyes she had ever seen.

He was small, barely a thumb taller than she was, and slight of build. His clothes were as black as his eyes, expensive-looking and tailored to fit him; his long cloak was clasped beneath his chin with a silver pin, a puff of white lace peeking up from his collar and cuffs. His boots were freshly shined. His hair was black as well, cut close to the skull. The only other ornamentation he wore was an oddly styled goatee, shaved bare at the chin and sculpted into two sharp spikes that pointed up toward his lower lip, giving the illusion of a rather dramatic moustache rather than any sort of trimmed beard.

And still he stared, unblinking, saying nothing. She could not readily tell his age; forty winters, she guessed, though he could easily have been near fifty. His nose was prominent, his skin pale, though his features had an oddly foreign cast.

A southerner, she thought, noting the stylistically tall black hat he held in one hand. But even that seemed off; despite his manner of dress, the man’s face was not the sort of face she had ever seen before.

“Excuse me,” she finally said, slowly, dipping her head in a brief facsimile of deference. He was an adult, after all.

The man looked at her as though she had said something completely incomprehensible. She thought for a moment he did not even speak the custom tongue.

“None needed,” he finally replied, softly, and indeed his words held the hint of an accent, though from where she had not the barest inkling.

“Pardon. I…need to go to dinner,” she mumbled. His stare did not cease. She took a step, as if to move past him to the stairs beyond.

Still, he did not move. His dark eyes followed her. She stopped short of rudely shouldering past.

Her temper finally got the better of her. “You will need to move, my lord,” she snapped. “I have to pass.”

Something flickered in the depths of his odd gaze. “I am no lord,” he said softly. “I own no land.”

“Then have a care for your finery. I would hate to impair it.” There was a strong likelihood that any sort of overt physical contact would send the slight man sprawling.

“You are the Knightlord’s daughter,” the man suddenly said.

Roen’s instinct was an irksome retort, but she held her tongue. His common lack of manners could very well be attributed to him being a foreign man in a foreign land. Roen was not going to disparage anyone simply because they were different. I would have to disparage myself.

“I am Roen,” she said after a moment. “And my lord father will be displeased I am so late to sup. We have guests.”

“They are nothing,” the man said. His words never strayed from soft, his neutral tone nearly monotonous.

Roen’s brow furrowed. “Did Doryan bring you here with them?” That was the only thing that made sense. Was her brother riding about the land looking for men to drag back to Dorn Keep? She hoped this small, darkly seeming man was not also brought to court her.

“He did escort me, yes,” the man answered softly. “I have business with your father.”

If you think to wed me, you need to get in line, Roen thought, irked again. The idea of marrying an old man was more horrifying to her than she wanted to admit.

“Apologies, but I still do not know you, sir,” she said tersely. “You have a name?” The man would have to accustom himself to blunt questions whilst in the Northern Kingdoms. Any northern lord would have introduced himself five times by now.

His lips held the faintest trace of a smile. His eyes did not.

“I am Malacai,” he said. There was an odd pause between each word.

“As you say, then.” Roen nodded to him, glancing one more time up the stairs impatiently. Today had been filled with questions that had no answers. If she had more for this odd man, they would have to wait. I am later than late. Doryan will never let me live this down. “Apologies, but I must go,” she finally grumbled. And with that she turned her shoulders and stepped sideways past him. Roen flew up the stone steps as fast as her dress would allow.

“Master,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder.

She only slowed on the stair for a moment. When nothing else seemed forthcoming, she continued up.

And then she heard his voice again.

It was only after Roen had ascended to the top of the stair that she realized those last words had been spoken inside her head.
 
 
 

 
 
        “I note that Duke Zhadra’s device does not array upon your standard,” Lord Hammod il’Valas said. This was apparently his way of making small talk.

“You note correctly, my lord,” Doryan the Younger replied with a thin smile.

Roen’s eldest brother sat back in his high-backed chair. His long legs were crossed, his doublet unbuttoned. The dinner had been cleared away, the dishes whisked off and the napkins replaced, and a round of liqueur had been poured while waiting for dessert. Even Roen had a small sifter of the orange liquid placed before her, though she had not touched it. Lord Hammod and his son Jestin had downed each of theirs already.

“I would not be eager to display it, were I a knightlord in these lands,” il’Valas continued. “What loyalty has he shown you? Duke Zhadra’s leal lords paid the price for his actions, though I don’t have to tell you that. His rebellion ensured the good men who followed him in his hubris were hamstrung for years to come. Good, loyal men.” He made a show of brushing a few missed crumbs from the pocked surface of the dinner table. Earlier he had remarked his surprise that a proper tablecloth had not been set.

Doryan gave a perfunctory tilt of his head. Roen sat still in her chair and watched her brother.

“A fool’s errand,” Lord Hammod went on. “Trying to take Lacéne, as bold as you please, and then daring to challenge Palador’s very sovereignty when called to the carpet for an answer. How could he not expect the fury of the Ten Kings to descend upon his head?”

“A risk,” Doryan granted. “Taken ten years ago. I am sure it seems a folly now.”

Roen sat still in her chair. Every Zhadran knew their histories, especially the recent ones; of how King Viktor had made war upon their neighbor, Lacéne, in order to win back his ancestral lands. The Zhadrans were not supported by any of the other nations in the Northern Kingdoms, which ultimately doomed the campaign. Many brave men—two of Roen’s uncles included—lost their lives in the war. Worse, the king of neighboring Palador convened a council soon after that stripped Zhadra of its sovereignty. Zhadra was reduced to a duchy that was beholden to pompous Palador, and King Viktor was made a duke, all with one swish of a pen; this in turn diminished the titles of his own nobles, Roen’s lord father included. Most Zhadrans did not speak of it. Few Dorns would, and no one did so in the presence of the Knightlord.

And yet here was this Vertaen lord pronouncing his opinions on the matter. People did not usually insult the Duke of Zhadra so brazenly; it was akin to insulting their father, which was treason. Moreover, Doryan was merely listening, as patient as she had ever seen him. It was beyond strange.

Political talk aside, the dinner had not been a disaster so far, though it was far from pleasant for Roen. The small dining room was reserved for private affairs, and was kept warm and well-lit, with two hearths and multiple candelabras set about a long table that seemed too big for its confines. Roen preferred the cooler, more spacious first floor dining hall.

There was also the matter of her dress, which she hated. Roen’s dinner gown was too tight across the shoulders, and the lace shift she wore underneath itched. The shoes Amia had presented her with—the only ones that matched the dress—were at least a size too small. Roen was certain the perfume her maidservant had doused her with was making her break out in a rash.

And then there were the guests. Lord Hammod il’Valas was a highly opinionated, portly man in his mid-fifties, with thinning white hair and a bristle-brush of odd-looking whiskers on his cheeks. His face reddened the more he drank, and he had already imbibed quite a bit. Roen had to admit he could certainly hold his wine; Lord Hammod had put away three glasses without so much as hesitating and seemed none the worse for wear.

Despite his brusqueness, il’Valas’s mood had improved through the evening. The Vertaen nobleman had been initially displeased to learn that the Knightlord would not be personally attending, which had gotten dinner off to a chilly start. Lord Hammod’s façade changed once food was placed before him. He attacked the porter hen like a starving man.

His son Jestin was fifteen winters, thin, and…. Doryan had called him “pretty”, and that was still the only word that seemed to suit. Jestin’s blond hair was brushed back away from a fair face, curling over his ears and the high collar of his velvet dinner coat. He had long lashes and blue eyes and high cheekbones. When he took Roen’s hand to kiss at introduction, his own hand was gentle. Soft even. He smelled fancier than Roen would ever want to smell. The fact that she, too, was wearing perfume made it somehow worse.

The dinner was Lord Hammod’s arrangement. Doryan had encountered the Vertaen lord and his son whilst forging pacts for trade on the Storming Sea. The treaties were seen as vital for Zhadra as a whole; it had been many years since Zhadra could claim a port town as its own, and it was their lord father’s desire to use what contacts they had to further the duchy’s interests—and Dorn’s interests by association. Somehow, tucked within the trade talk, Roen’s marital availability had been brought to the fore. She wished it had not been so.

Lord Hammod was still watching Doryan, expectant, as though seeking something. Despite his free words, there was a lack of trust apparent.

After a long moment of silence, Jestin spoke up. “It was I who noted your banners, Sir Doryan. My father and I found it curious that the black wolf of Zhadra does not fly upon the four-towered flags of Dorn Keep.” Jestin’s voice was high for a boy his age.

“Three towers now,” Doryan corrected. He eyed the youth up and down. “And I hope you are not intimating a lack of loyalty to the Duke on our part.”

“Not at all,” il’Valas interceded, his conciliatory tone verging on politeness. “My boy holds an interest in heraldry and is merely pointing out the truths he sees. We are not here to insult our noble hosts.” He said that with a straight face, following hours of backhanded compliments and thinly veiled contempt.

“Clearly,” Doryan murmured. He glanced at two waiting servants, which was the only urging they needed. Dessert was brought out and served.

“I’ll not bandy words with you, Dorn,” Lord Hammod said, digging into his plum pudding with gusto. “We have come a long way for this conversation. Your duke made it plain in years past that he favors a personal agenda over the Northlaw. I am within my rights to ensure my son won’t be wed to a similar warmonger.”

Doryan chuckled darkly. “He would wed my sister. She is far too young to be a warmonger as yet, though we have our hopes.”

Lord Hammod sniffed, not appreciating the jest. Roen suspected Doryan was testing him.

“Vertaes is a simple, peaceful woodland nation,” Jestin interjected more gently. “We champion the rights of all the nations of the north. The Northlaw Pact set forth a map we all have obligations to honor. The rest of the civilized world can hardly be expected to take us seriously if we cannot even agree on simple borders.”

Roen doubted the rest of the world cared about what went on in the Ten Kings. But Jestin’s heart seemed to be in the right place, at least, and he was not as brazenly insolent as his father. Roen actually liked that Jestin was not hesitant to speak…though she suspected this was because he did not truly know her brother or understand the consequence a misspoken word might have.

“Borders can change,” Doryan drawled. He toyed with his dessert, poking it indolently with his fork. “As can flags. But you noted that.”

Jestin leaned forward, eager. “I do find your heraldries fascinating,” he said. “And your family’s watchwords, which are heartening to those of us who seek to maintain a fair and lawful realm. Duty and faith, honor and justice. More in keeping with maintaining the peace than begetting wars. Those are tenets we should all aspire to.”

Doryan shrugged. He was beginning to look bored, which did not bode well for the remainder of the visit.

Lord Hammod bulled forward. “What my boy is saying is that Dorn feels apart from the more recent Zhadran habit of assailing its neighbors. Vertaens value honest work and loyalty—as do, you should note, most of the nations who honor the Northlaw.”

“But we also understand tradition,” Jestin added, “how it shapes our histories. Your own traditions, for example.” He was clearly accustomed to speaking his mind to his elders and was eager to showcase his knowledge of their people. “I read that the men who fled east and founded Chetsya always bore two standards—”

“I am aware of our Duchy’s history,” Doryan said blandly. “But the men of old came east for land, not in flight. Much as Duke Zhadra did when he marched south to claim ancestral territories in Lacéne that were rightly his.”

“Conveniently forgetting hundreds of years of history makes for a flimsy excuse to invade,” Lord Hammod exclaimed, then harrumphed. “It’s absurd.”

Doryan shrugged. “Time is irrelevant. Ten years, or ten hundred. What have we if not our histories? Zhadrans are all too happy to take up arms to defend them.” He smiled a faint smile. “As are Vertaens, or so the Free Dales have learned.”

Lord Hammod looked warily at Roen’s brother, as if truly seeing him for the first time. “The Northlaw is the rock upon which we all stand,” il’Valas said. “It defined our borders and is meant to be a mandate for peace. The Dalesmen break that peace with their ill-waged, petulant rebellion. It is our duty to put down insurrection.” He sniffed. “You’ll note Vertaes has not dabbled in cross-border warfare in over two hundred years.” Lord Hammod scowled and took another stab at the pudding with his spoon. He then looked at Doryan and added, pointedly, “Nor would we break laws that would result in our kingdom becoming a duchy.”

“And yet you seem eager for me to test one of our oldest laws,” Doryan answered. “Should I deny that one in favor of the one you espouse? Or should I obey and remain steadfast in my allegiance to the Duke of Zhadra?”

“I don’t care what you do,” il’Valas snapped. “Your absent father rules Dorn, not you.”

He could not have known how well placed his blow was. Doryan the Younger did not immediately respond, though he shifted in his seat slowly. Roen could not help but picture a very large snake uncoiling.

Doryan looked at Jestin again. “Tell me more about yourself, young lordling. And your love of flags.”

“I am well-studied in heraldry, sir,” the young man replied. “It excites me.”

Doryan seemed amused by that. “Does it now?”

“Oh, yes,” Jestin said. “I was first in my class at Bastion. In heraldry, I mean.”

Bastion. Roen peered at Jestin. She wondered if he had ever met Andric. I will ask him later if I can, she told herself, though she doubted they would be left alone.

“You attended Bastion.” Doryan smiled at the boy. “I did not know this.” Roen knew Jestin did not recognize the odd gleam in her brother’s eyes. She felt sorry for him.

A look was traded between Lord Hammod and his son. “He did attend for a time,” il’Valas said, clearing his throat. “It is not so rare, a boy schooling abroad. A well-heeled lad is Jestin, I assure you. His mother and I thought he would do well to experience things outside of our land. A worldly son makes a proper leader.”

“Is that what he is going to be?” Doryan’s gaze did not waver on Jestin. The boy shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly conscious of Doryan’s unblinking stare.

“She is certainly the quiet one,” Lord Hammod suddenly remarked, turning to Roen. The shift in conversation was so quick she blinked.

“Dorn girls are taught silence as a virtue.” Doryan slid a look to her.

“Acquiesce to one’s lord husband, yes, of course,” il’Valas said. “But the lady of a Vertaen house must find her tongue in order to properly run a household, else the servants become unruly. Does she have a spine?” He looked at Roen doubtfully.

“At times,” Doryan said with a soft laugh. “At times more spine than she should.” He glanced back the old lord’s way. “You will find your servants less unruly if you punish them in a timely manner. We do not cluck our tongues at the help. All my sister needs to keep order in your house is her good right arm and a riding crop.”

Jestin laughed a nervous laugh. Lord Hammod scowled and harrumphed again. Roen looked down and glared at the table.

“I think she is very beautiful,” Jestin said, offering a supportive smile. It was meant as a compliment, but Roen narrowed her eyes. Jestin was doing what his father and Doryan had been doing, speaking of her and not to her. This disturbing habit seemed to be the way of western lords.

If this is how it will be, I may as well not even be present, she thought sourly. And yet here she was, and here they were. She felt as though their eyes were stripping away her skin. Her cheeks felt hot.

Doryan was more than apt at playing the game, however. “That is kind of you to say. Her mother was a beauty, hailing from Vertaes, like you. With a little patience and luck, my sister should grow into her own as well.”

“A Moriet, yes,” il’Valas sniffed. He had apparently done some research on the matter of Roen’s parentage. “We’ve a few. Though they’re transplants. Moriet is a Melanoisien name.”

“Lorean, Father,” Jestin corrected.

Lord Hammod looked annoyed at his bookish son. “Be that as it may.” He clasped his hands on the table. “I would like to hammer out the accord for this marriage before the night is done. I am on Queen’s business, and we gave no cause to have her think we would stray from our schedule.”

“Business indeed,” Doryan murmured. “Sarisa holds your reins tightly, my lord.”

“Her Grace gifts us with many tasks of import,” Lord Hammod blustered.

“One of which is landing your son a Zhadran bride. Odd priorities, your queen.”

Il’Valas looked ready to protest some more, but Jestin spoke up. “If we are to marry, would she be Roen ven Valas? That has a ring to it.” Jestin smiled, pleased with himself. Roen thought he seemed a little too eager about it all.

“That’s not how it works, I’m afraid,” Jestin’s father said, clearing his throat and wiping at the corner of his mouth with a thick napkin. He had utterly demolished the plum pudding. “Perhaps if she stayed in these sad lands. But no. The girl will come west, to live with you in Haven, and Zhadran appellations would not be advantageous there. She would be il’Valas. What good would she do you otherwise?”

“Haven?” Jestin asked. He looked both surprised and happy for a moment. “Have we leave to return—”

“Of course,” his father interrupted quickly. “We will speak more of it later.” Another look passed between them. Jestin flushed and looked down, as though realizing he had spoken out of turn, or….

He just undid his father’s lie, Roen realized. This was now a more dangerous conversation.

Doryan noticed it as well. It was in the way he smiled.

And then Doryan the Younger laughed. It was a loud, insolent laugh. He laughed as though the dinner had turned into the very height of amusement for him.

Lord Hammod il’Valas bristled. “Something is amusing you.”

“Quite.” Doryan made a show of wiping his hands slowly with a napkin. He sat up, losing the air of casual indolence he had adopted. “What you’ve essentially told me is that you have lost your ancestral lands, lost your fortunes, and lost your influence with your own queen. To recoup, you have deigned to lower your standards by marrying your worthless son—a son I note whose single greatest accomplishment was a high mark in flag recognition before being kicked out of the Zhadran academy—to an unattractive girl whose family, though uncivilized, has ten times the actual wealth you do. Do tell me if I am missing anything.”

Lord Hammod’s red face was redder. “Jestin was not expelled from Bastion. He was removed by me.”

“Yes, it is expensive. I attended, as did all my brothers. I imagine you could not afford to keep him there.” Doryan chuckled. “Tell me, Valas. What good are you to me?”

Lord Hammod was quivering with rage. He rose from his chair. “That is il’Valas to you, cur. My lord if you have a sliver of civility in you. Our house is older than the crumbling stone you’ve built your basal keep upon, and far more noble than anything you’ll ever sniff. Our very name would have most men on their knees begging for a scrap of our leavings, much less the opportunity to affix the Valas name to one’s manly daughter.”

“Most men,” Doryan said with a shrug. “Not my father, nor me. In fact, you will find most Zhadrans are loath to wed their daughters to fallen houses.”

“Fallen—” il’Valas sputtered. “You incite cause for duel!” He looked as though he might have the actual temerity to throw a glove.

“Yes,” Doryan agreed. He rose slowly to his feet. “Though surely not by your hand. Choose your advocate if you wish to see this through. I noted two swordsmen amongst the six you had as retinue: one portly, the other plainly fat. Assuming he wins, I’ll be dead, and you’ll be satisfied,” Doryan drawled. “But if he does not….”

Doryan’s next words were spoken with soft, deadly precision. “I will come to you for my own satisfaction.” He let that sink in before saying, “And trust me, my lord, you do not want to see me satisfied.”

Roen could not agree more.

A very odd look came over Lord Hammod. There was fear in his eyes. Roen did not imagine he was accustomed to that.

Lord Hammod il’Valas hastily gathered his cane and coat from the servant that had been patiently holding them. He gave a perfunctory bow then turned on his heel, nearly knocking over a vase perched upon a nearby end table, and went as quickly as his bandied legs could carry him toward the doorway.

Jestin quickly rose and retreated as well, head lowered, dutifully trailing behind his lord father. Roen rose as well to follow, as courtesy dictated. At the door the boy turned, on instinct, to say his farewells. He was not bold enough to address Doryan anymore, so he instead looked to Roen.

“Thank you for your time,” Jestin said to her. “But I am afraid I shall have to reconsider my opinion.” His lips pressed primly together. “Perhaps it was the low light. You’re not beautiful at all. Ungainly, really. But that is not your fault. And now we must be departing.” He bowed.

Roen’s first instinct was to offer a departing punch to the young lord’s face; it was her second instinct as well, so she did, throwing a clean, straight blow that landed squarely on Jestin’s pretty mouth as soon as he straightened from his bow. The young lord’s head snapped back, blond hair flying, and he stumbled backwards and landed flat on his backside.

“F-Father—!” Jestin choked, one hand covering his mouth. Lord Hammod blustered loudly from the doorway, but made no move to assist his dazed son in rising, likely because it would put himself within striking distance of Doryan’s ungainly and violent sister. The old man’s eyes were practically bulging out of his skull.

They were soon gone, the echo of Jestin’s sobs fading like a mournful ghost down the upper hall stairwell. Roen felt a twinge of guilt, now that her temper’s flare had passed; Jestin’s only real crime was siding with his lord father, protecting his family’s interests. What made him different from anyone else here?

Doryan shook his head, chuckling to himself. He re-buttoned his tunic and cuffs in his usual lackadaisical manner.

Roen watched him, flexing her hand. “This was never going to work,” she muttered. “You had to have known. And I do not want to marry.”

Doryan glanced at her, then turned and slapped her. It wasn’t hard, but it stung, nonetheless.

“Do not think the blame falls squarely on those buffoons,” he said quietly. “My own fault lay in the assumption that you might actually clean up well. Alas. Were you more alluring, our house might have greater opportunities. With others, if not the Vertaens. Make no mention of that lovely parting salvo you just gifted them. As it was, word would have traveled west that you were some hideous, clod-footed sow. But now? Add violent beast to that.” He shook his head. “I suspected them to be beggaring nobility from the start, but hoped, at least, to take advantage of their propensity for gossip in a positive way.”

Roen rubbed her cheek, scowling. “You pushed them to anger. You undid everything yourself.”

He shrugged. “Father wanted to know their stock. I think we have it. No use to us at all.”

But what of the next one? she thought. If tonight were any measure, if this was to be the way of it, Doryan and their father would eventually find one they deemed suitable.

“I’ll have to report this misadventure to Father.” Doryan sighed dramatically. “I should say you owe me for even attending. A perfect waste to a perfectly good evening.”

Roen stared her brother down. She had kept her anger inside during the dinner, up until the end. But she did not have to now. Their family’s repute was no longer at stake—the only risk was her brother’s wrath. She had faced that before.

“I know you, Doryan,” she said, voice low. “That went exactly as you hoped it would. And we both know there are some things you will never tell Father.” It was not said in accusation, only in truth.

Doryan could not help but smile that sly smile she was all too accustomed to. He laughed softly.

His look said it all: You have me there.

Doryan turned on his heel and strode out of the small dining room.