“Got you!” Gregor almost caught Irital, though all he came up with was the ribbon from her hair. The girl screamed in surprise.

“Not quite!” She jerked her braid away hard enough that the crimson serpent slipped out of her hair to remain in Gregor’s grasp. Taking a few leaps away, she made a face and bowed mockingly. “Now we’ll see if Gregor Voldhard is as fast as he is strong in battle.”

She hitched up her skirt and dashed off in the direction of the forest before Gregor had time to think twice. With a look around, he grunted in satisfaction—they finally had a chance to get away from the girl’s army of nannies. Gregor scratched his nose, straightened the collar of his shirt, slipped his trophy into his chest pocket, gauged a shortcut, and set off in pursuit. That Irital certainly was a tease. And like an idiot, he could never let her go.

“You she-devil…you aren’t getting away!” he bellowed, long hurdles taking him across hummocks slippery with dew. The girl dashed like a deer across the field. She ran, laughed, threw her arms wide, and felt the wind play across her face. She was childlike, but Gregor always bore in mind who she was. Forgetting himself just once would have been inviting a world of trouble.

“Faster, Your Slowpokeness!” Once in the forest, Irital threw herself down on a stump and waved her arms. “Well, you lose again.”

All he could do was mutter to himself as he tripped over a root. Irital Urdanan was probably Latandal’s fastest daughter, and certainly the most beautiful woman in the entire world. And she was destined for a great future: only one woman every hundred years was lucky enough to be born with the Mark of Gintare on her body, good enough for the emperor or a god. Gregor, of course, managed to find himself with a crush on the unattainable beauty. It was all wrong—he had the honor of being Irital’s bodyguard in Highligland, and she was smitten by him, as well. Years rolled by, they both matured, and their feelings for each other remained the same. Sure, the older Irital got, the less often they were able to see each other, her retinue tightening their watchful grip over the high-born Latanian girl. On the other hand, she was a clever one, sometimes able to engineer one-on-one time with Gregor. The only problem was that they were fooling themselves more than anyone else. They both knew very well, after all, that continuing their secret romance just meant a harder parting in the end.

The worst was that neither Gregor nor Irital had any idea when that moment would come—the Divine Sign was liable to appear at any moment. And that was why Irital Urdanan lived every day with Gregor as if it was their last.

“Well?” she shouted. “Where are you?”

Gregor forced his mind away from his train of thought. Dwelling on their murky future was the last thing he wanted to do, especially that day. All Highligland was celebrating the long-awaited coming of spring, and the weather was finally beautiful. Everyone in the capital of Ellisdor and the surrounding areas poured out onto the streets, the mood was celebratory, ale was sloshed around, and songs filled the air. Children played across the green fields. Dancing threatened to stretch through the night. But what Gregor also loved about the holidays was that he and Irital were able to find secluded spots to slip away to during all the commotion. And that was one such example: the Latanian girl turned off the path and headed toward a large fallen tree, their favorite spot.

Gregor caught up to her in the clearing. The girl let out her golden braid, tucked her skirt into her belt, and intently scraped away at the tree with a small knife.

“What’s that for?” the Highliglander asked, laying his cloak out.

“Hetz, the stableman’s son, is sick. You can boil these mushrooms to get a potion that will bring down the fever, and I figured I’d grab some while we’re here.”

Gregor waited for Irital to finish before pulling her close and burying his nose in her hair—the top of her head reached exactly to his chin. They probably made for an odd-looking pair, but he liked how fragile she was and felt an urge to protect her. In fact, next to her delicacy, he often felt rough and unpolished.

“I’m not surprised everybody likes you here,” he said as he hugged her tightly. “My people appreciate it when nobles are down to earth. Everyone already believes you’re divine, and they’re going to think you’re a living saint when they see how you treat mere mortals.”

“Oh, stop it,” the Latanian girl replied with a wave. “I don’t do it to get people to like me. I don’t believe in all those divine signs, either.”

“But they believe in them where you’re from, and across the empire, too.” Gregor let the girl go, plopped down onto his knees, and threw his arms wide in imitation of prophetic ecstasy. “I see it as if it’s right here in front of me: throngs of sufferers come to Irital the Devout in hopes of receiving but a piece of her holiness that they might be healed!”

The Latanian laughed loudly.

“Me? Devout? After all the taboos we’ve broken?” She stood over him, shaking a finger in his face. “Accursed sinners like us are doomed to burn in Arzimat’s fires!”

“So, what? You look like a goddess already. Just watch—one of these days, I’ll come crawling to you with a request, begging you to bless some nonsense like a marriage with a fat-assed count’s daughter my advisors insist on.”

Irital dropped her knife in surprise.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked firmly. Gregor could tell by the look in her eyes that he’d gone too far. “Why would you say something like that, knowing about my duty and feelings the way you do? I didn’t choose to be born with the mark. I didn’t choose to be someone rulers, advisors, and everyone else make decisions for. Yes, I follow their orders, but this isn’t what I want.”

“I’m sorry, I —”

With a gesture, Irital silenced him.

“Every day, I wake up and pray that the Keeper won’t give signs the clergy can twist the way they want. The only thing in my prayers is that you and I get a little more time. If it were up to me, I’d turn my back on my position, my accursed fate, that sickening legation, and all the trips around the empire as a living symbol of what I myself don’t even believe! But is that even possible?” Irital’s head drooped as she wiped an exasperated tear from her cheek with her sleeve. She was always brave, hated crying in front of other people—that was how she was raised, and it was who she was. “When you’re born with the Mark of Gintare, you’re no longer your own. That’s the law. Either they’ll give me to an emperor or, if the sign doesn’t appear, they’ll lock me up in a cloister until the end of my days.”

“I don’t like either of those options.” Gregor stepped closer to Irital and once again hugged her tightly. She let out a small gasp from the strength of his embrace. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot, and I spoke without thinking. I’d give anything for us to be together. It was all over for me back in the Order when I saw you for the first time—even when they brought me back into the world, handed me titles, and started throwing noblewomen my way, I never had eyes for anyone but you. Unless that enchanting head of yours comes up with a genius plan for how to foil the prophecy and turn the tables on the most powerful people in the world, I’m going to die a bachelor in love.”

“That’s no easy job, and it’s one I’ve thought about so many times. At the very least, we can wait until we’re old and my womb dries up. Then we can join a cloister together.”

Gregor shivered.

“That’s the only thing that could make me go back there. You know how much I hate those places.”

Irital shrugged and forced a smile.

“At least, we’ll be able to pray for forgiveness for all our profligate sins.”

“That’s all we’ll be able to do.”

Once again, the conversation turned to jokes, which is what always happened when they started talking about the future. Gregor was starting to think that biding his time until old age, when he could spend his last year together with his love, wouldn’t have been the worst idea if it hadn’t been for the hatred he harbored for the Order. He didn’t want to spend his whole life waiting, either.

“Get over here.” Pulling the girl closer, he kissed her. Irital responded in kind—intensely, the way she always did when she remembered how short a time they had for happiness. Her hands found their way to his short-cropped hair as she closed her eyes and surrendered control.

Somewhere behind them, from the direction of the field, a twig snapped. Gregor pulled away.

“Hide behind a tree,” he said. “If something happens, we’ll head back separately.”

“Got it.”

Irital looked around, made sure nothing was there that could give her away, and ducked behind the fallen tree. After brushing off his clothes, Gregor picked up his cloak and stepped toward the person moving through the underbrush, his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

“It’s me—Aldor!” came a loud whisper. “Don’t attack, your lordship.”

Gregor sighed in relief. Steward Aldor den Grauer was the only friend who knew about the secret he and Irital shared.

“Alone?”

“Yes. The lady can come out, too. I know you’re together.”

Irital peered out cautiously from behind her tree.

“Aldor, the look on your face,” she remarked in amazement. “What happened?”

Grauer really was a site—his chestnut locks were disheveled, his face and its unusually soft features for a northerner were pale, and his eyes darted to and fro. Gregor even thought he caught a shiver run down his friend’s slender body.

“What are those?” he asked, nodding at the letters jutting out of the steward’s waist bag.

“News from the capital. The first is for Your Grace; the second for Lady Irital. Forgive me.”

“Oh, god, for what?”

“For being the bearer of bad news.” Aldor handed them the letters. “Please, read them immediately. It’s important.”

Gregor grabbed the thick paper rolled up and stamped with the seal of the imperial palace. Irital, seeing her native Latandal’s crest, hesitated for a second, but then took it and broke the wax.

“Merciful Keeper and his son Gillenai!” Gregor exclaimed. “Uncle Margius… The emperor is dead.”

“May his soul rest in the Crystal Hall,” Aldor replied out of habit. “I’m very sorry, Your Grace.”

Gregor gave him an annoyed and dismissive wave.

“What good does you being sorry do? It says the will was lost, and my uncle doesn’t have any direct heirs. As his nephew on my mother’s side, I’m being summoned to the Council in the capital so we can select the next emperor.”

Aldor glanced over at Irital in alarm. The girl was reading her letter, completely unaware of what Gregor was saying. And the farther she got, the paler her face turned. Once she finished, she dropped the letter and staggered slightly—Gregor barely had time to grab hold of her. Aldor picked the paper up off the leaves. It was written in the Latanian script, an ancient language he couldn’t read.

“Irital, what’s the matter?”

“The lady needs to sit down!” Aldor ripped his cloak off his shoulders and threw it on the trunk of the fallen tree. Carefully supporting his love, Gregor set her down and noted the chills wracking her. “I have smelling salts somewhere…”

Irital, still pale, took the crystal bottle the steward handed her, breathed in deeply, and grimaced sharply before speaking.

“The sign…” To the men’s deep concern, her lips barely moved. She looked scared to death. “The clerics saw the sign. I’m being summoned to Missolen, too.”

The duke stared at her in disbelief.

“Okay, we’ll set sail together. I’ll have them outfit a ship. And hey, that’s even better so long as—”

“You don’t get it!” Irital shrieked suddenly. A look of such agony twisted her face that Gregor and Aldor recoiled in surprise. “It’s a terrible sign! I’m being summoned to the capital so they can give me away to the emperor.”

***

“How can they give you to the emperor if he’s dead?” Wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, Gregor nervously paced the small hall in Ellisdor Castle. The young duke’s powerful figure barely squeezed in between the table and the wall.

“And he didn’t leave any heirs,” Irital added. She’d changed to better fit the spring festival and looked regal and refined as befit her status. But the cold was getting to her—Aldor noticed how she kept hiding her hands in her fur.

Only Lady Rhinhilda, Gregor’s sister, it seemed, was enjoying the usual cold. She was at ease, her cloak discarded, as she took deceptively languid pulls of the spiced wine Aldor had had brought from the kitchen.

A ragged chorus broke out in the courtyard as soldiers recently returned from a campaign to the Disputed Lands bellowed a song so loudly, they could be heard all the way up in the topmost floors of the manor house. Barrels of ale were rolled out of the cellars, while pig carcasses turned slowly over fires. The wondrous aroma of roasting meat filled the air. Servants loaded the tables with pies, loaves of bread, and platters of baked venison. The dancing in the main hall reached a fever pitch. In a word, nobody had noticed that the castle’s masters were missing.

Aldor pushed his cup away, threw an anxious glance in Rhinhilda’s direction, and once again marveled at the similarities between the siblings. She and her brother were both fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall, and hefty as northern trees. Sure, Gregor’s personality turned more toward their father—he was just as stubborn, passionate, and direct as the late Lord Rolf. Rhinhilda was more akin to their mother, the dead emperor’s sister. Concise and preferring to keep to herself, she still had a sharp wit and enjoyed the adoration of the people. Gregor often came to her for advice, still unused to life after the Order.

“We know one thing: there’s going to be a new emperor.” Rhinhilda tossed her thick braid over her shoulder. “He’ll be selected from among the remaining relatives at the Council in Missolen, where Gregor has been ordered to go. That’s all in the letter.”

Gregor finally stopped pacing and turned to his sister.

“So, Irital has been given to who-knows-who.”

“I’m afraid so,” Aldor nodded.

“That’s unthinkable!”

“That’s the prophecy of Gintare of Taldor!” Rhinhilda exclaimed. “Over the centuries, the prophecies of the Latanian clerics have never once led us astray.”

Rhinhilda was obviously exasperated by her brother’s inability to separate reason from emotion, while Aldor was afraid to put himself between them. He could understand the lady’s annoyance—in an instant, the normal way of life in Highligland could change, and Rhinhilda, so far just the first woman in the duchy, didn’t want to give way to worry. Gregor’s hot temper could also get him in trouble, and that was probably what she was most nervous about.

“The clerics can interpret the sign however they want,” the young duke replied. “Was it even the right sign? It all fits together too well—as soon as my uncle gave up the ghost, the sign appeared. Quite the coincidence, no? Maybe the holies just saw what they wanted to see.”

Her last vestiges of self-control gone, Rhinhilda leaped up from the bench, which creaked plaintively.

“Listen to yourself, Gregor Voldhard! You’re the Duke of Highligland, and you’re talking like a heretic!” Realizing that she’d grabbed her brother by the collar in her fit of rage, she jerked her hand back sheepishly. “Don’t you dare say anything like that outside these walls unless you want to finish us all. Going up against Eclusum is the last thing you need.”

“Lord Gregor… Your Grace,” Aldor said finally. He hurriedly poured some wine into two chalices and handed them to the quarreling siblings with a light bow before they could push themselves over the edge. “Lady Rhinhilda is right—now is the time to be especially careful. Eclusum and the Great Master were none too pleased to give you your title. The church doesn’t just return to the world on a whim those who have taken the vow, and your father paid dearly for your title after the death of Lord Lotar.”

The duke shook his head tiredly.

“Aldor, don’t start. I know I shouldn’t have gotten it.”

“But you did, and here we are. As your faithful servant and friend, it’s my responsibility to remind you of that. You and Lady Rhinhilda are the last of the Voldhards, though nobody prepared you to rule. Your sister is promised to the Gatson prince and will soon be heading south. And that just leaves you in charge of Highligland. Of course, your advisors are going to have their own interests in mind, and they’re going to try to steer you where they need you to go. Your father and older brother are dead. Your mother retreated from the worldly life. And here you are, all alone against the kind of people who eat pawns like us for breakfast! So, please, I’m begging you to think carefully about whatever decision you make. One mistake will cost all of Highligland dearly.”

Gregor listened to his friend in silence, casting glances in Irital’s direction. Still not recovered from the shocking news, the girl was sitting motionless and statuesque at the table. Rhinhilda nodded her thanks to Aldor for his support before taking her brother by the hand. With her that close, Aldor jumped—he was always shy around her, fostering a secret crush. The one difference with the proximity was that he had to look up at her, as Rhinhilda had grown into a strong she-warrior from the northern legends towering half a head above him.

“It’s reality, Gregor,” she said softly. “The girl’s promised to the next emperor, whoever he might be. You just have to accept that.”

“The girl is still here,” Irital said finally. Aldor didn’t like her tone. “She’s still the Latanian ambassador, and she can speak for herself.”

Rhinhilda smiled thinly.

“What would the lady ambassador like to say?”

Irital motioned everyone to be seated. After glancing around the hall to make sure there were no unwanted listeners, she started speaking in a hurried and low voice.

“Gregor will go to the Council and spend the first few days behaving as though nothing happened. He can listen to the nobles give speeches, look over the contenders, make new acquaintances—there will be plenty of people in Missolen looking to befriend him. I’ll stay here.”

Rhinhilda stared at the Latanian in amazement.

“I’m sorry… Lady Irital, do I understand correctly that you intend to refuse your holy duty?”

“You do,” Irital replied calmly. And there was such strength in her voice that Aldor realized she’d made up her mind. He glanced quickly at the duke and barely held his tongue. His friend had sighed in relief and was smiling happily, almost as if someone had rolled an enormous boulder off his shoulders. Rhinhilda was lost for words. And the more what she knew her brother was about to say sank in, the wider Gregor’s grin spread.

“Tell them already!” Irital burst out. “Or I will. Either way, they’re going to find out soon enough, and I’d rather it be from us.”

“Yes, Your Grace, would you be so kind?” Rhinhilda said, her voice strained. “What idiocy did you two think up?”

Gregor stood up, straightened his shoulders, and stared at Irital, not finding the strength to look his sister in the eye. The ambassador held her breath.

“I’m going to the capital to announce at the Council my right to the imperial throne. Irital and I have loved each other for a long time, and neither she nor I are willing to sacrifice our feelings at the whim of a clutch of corrupt clergymen. Once I’m the emperor, I can make her my wife to keep everybody’s honor clean. But it’s better than Irital stays here in Highligland until I get back.”

Aldor’s stomach dropped. Of course, he wanted all the best for his friend and would have given anything to make sure Gregor enjoyed the happiness he so richly deserved, only Gregor’s plan threatened to plunge not just the empire into chaos, but even far-off Highligland. For if Irital decided to decline her destiny, the Latanians would hunt her—the laws governing women with the Mark of Gintare were strict. Defying divine will was a capital offense.

“I don’t even want to hear about that!” Rhinhilda shrieked. She slammed a fist down on the table, forgetting that her chalice was full and sending the ruby liquid curving neatly through the air until it splashed against the wall. “It’s madness, Gregor. You’re not going to get anything at the Council, and you’ll just line everyone in the capital up against you.”

The duke simply shrugged indifferently.

“For a start, I’ll just announce my candidacy. Nothing’s illegal about that, and nobody will trust me.”

“But you’re not going to stop there. You need to become emperor for your plan to work… Oh, god, Gregor, do you even realize the kind of people they are there? Do you know who you’re going to be up against? Just take the Burned Lord—he was Margius’ favorite. Before you have time to open your mouth, he or his allies will eat you alive!”

Rhinhilda’s consternation couldn’t have been more heartfelt. Even Aldor was alarmed. He would never have imagined that his friend could be foolish enough to bet everything he held dear, even for the sake of the most beautiful woman in the world.

“I know the risk, sister. But I made my decision.” Gregor turned icy eyes on Rhinhilda and held out a hand, motioning her to be silent. “I value your love and advice; I’m thankful you stayed with me and came to my aid when father brought me back from the cloister. But Aldor is right—you’re leaving soon, and I have to live on my own. The Keeper as my witness, I didn’t want it to go this far, but you’re forcing my hand.” He stepped over to his sister and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I, Duke of Highligland and Lord of Ellisdor, order you to submit to my will. I will go to Missolen and carry out my plan, and any attempt to impede me will be considered treason.”

“But—”

“And if you find it so unbearable to live with someone just trying to avail himself of the chance fate offered, you can set off for Gatson earlier than planned. The crown prince, I imagine, will be only too happy to see his betrothed.”

Rhinhilda stared silently at her brother, unable to believe her ears. Finally, she pulled her shoulder away from his hand, adjusted her sleeve string, lifted her chin proudly, and looked back up at Gregor.

“As Your Grace wishes,” she replied coldly with a ceremonious bow. “I will leave for Gatson as soon as possible and attempt to find allies there. God only knows, we’ll soon need them.”

“Thank you.”

“Before I leave, would you allow me one last word of advice, Lord Gregor?”

“Of course.”

“Give Highligland an heir before the capital elite grinds you into the dust.”

Her piece said, Rhinhilda grabbed her cloak and left the hall in a hurry. Irital got up from the bench as soon as the door slammed shut behind her.

“Let me talk to her. I’ll try to explain—”

“You’ll be wasting your breath.” Gregor slumped down onto the bench and drained his goblet. “She won’t understand. Rhiny always put duty above everything, possibly because she’s never known love.”

“I’m still going to try.”

Irital stepped hurriedly through the door, finally leaving the two friends alone. Aldor nodded quizzically toward the pitcher; Gregor slid his empty cup closer without a word.

“You were too hard on her,” the steward said. “Rhinhilda didn’t deserve that.”

The duke took a long pull and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“She forced my hand. God, Rhiny is so like mother sometimes! She didn’t love father for a second, though she stuck with him until the very end. Even with the mistress he had. She spent her life focused on her duty, and I don’t think she was happy for a minute.”

“Lady Viviana fulfilled her duty to the empire and Highligland. It’s no wonder she raised her daughter to do the same—Rhinhilda only cares about her homeland, and she’ll do anything to ensure peace here. You, Gregor, take after your father. You have his recklessness.”

“Well, I don’t have a mistress, at least.”

“You’re only twenty-three, with your whole life ahead of you,” Aldor replied. “Seriously, you have me worried. I’m just some guy who happened to go to school with you, but I share Rhinhilda’s opinion. You’re jumping into a very dangerous game.”

“You’re going to start that, too?”

Aldor took a drink of wine before placing his cup down on the table with a hollow thud.

“I know my place,” was his calm response. “I’m the younger son of a baron, and all I have is what you’ve given me. You have my oath of allegiance—I’m here to follow your orders.”

Gregor peered attentively at his friend, his icy stare sending a chill through Aldor. It was a look he’d seen on several occasions back in the Order, when then-Brother Gregor got into fights with his tutors and the elder friars, when he took his punishment for insolence with stubborn tranquility. It was in that moment that Aldor realized the duke had long since made up his mind—he cared more about Irital than he did about his ancestral home, one he was still unused to calling his own. Irital was his dream. Even with just the most elusive chance of making her his own, Gregor Voldhard was not about to rethink his plans no matter the consequences.

“Good,” the duke said stiffly. “Your first order is to prepare for my departure. I will be leaving Ellisdor tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“I have to hurry. The sooner I leave for Missolen, the better my chances are of making some useful friends. Maybe there will be someone prepared to support my claim.”

“That’s wise. At least, as much as anything about this whole idea can be wise,” Aldor muttered. “Will there be anything else?”

“As long as Rhinhilda is here, the castle is hers to command. But as soon as she leaves, Ellisdor belongs to you. Prepare the documents for me to sign.”

Aldor was dumbfounded.

“Are you joking?”

“Oh, stop it! There wasn’t anyone at the Order better than you at stewardship. What I need right now is for the castle to be under the watchful eye of someone I trust, and for someone to keep Irital safe. As soon as the crowd in Missolen realizes she’s breaking her oath, they’re going to try to punish or at least get their hands on her.”

“You can only have trusted people taking care of you. And there aren’t many of those.”

“Exactly. Count Urst and his son are still in the Disputed Lands bogged down in all their fights with the Runds. Ekkehard is full of crap—it’s just an accident of birth he’s my cousin, and I wouldn’t trust him with a secret like that for anything. My personal guard is out of the question, too, unless we want the whole world to hear about this. We need someone without a horse in this race. Can you think of anyone like that?”

For the first time that evening, Aldor smiled as he felt some semblance of confidence grow inside him.

“It’s a good thing your family has old debtors outside Ellisdor.”