Two miles from the capital, her dark skin hidden against the bark of a single, crooked mesquite tree, Drair watches the scout hammer westward, his sorrel horse foaming at the mouth. The mare's red flank is scarred with the brand of Denand, the neighboring country just east of the Pfeist Mountains. Her hooves kick up a storm of dust that follows them like a desert wraith toward the castle.

  A heat known well to the land presses heavily upon the yellowed grasses, balmy and sweet. Drair, her one-eyed gaze tethered to the lanky, red-headed scout, can feel the ache in her legs, limbs folded up inside the tree's cradle. A rolled cigarette teeters from the swell of her bottom lip, its tendrils of smoke scattering in the breeze. Minutes pass as the boy on horseback fizzles away into the haze crowning the slope to the west. Drair feels the heat warming her body from the inside out. As the scout blurs out of sight, Drair drops from her perch, rising from the dust and flicking her dying cigarette into the sand, the movement spreading relief through her tight muscles. The horse flickers into view as the scout passes over a dune, and she watches him dissolve again into the heat. Wrapping her scarf around her nose and mouth, she sets off toward the castle, following close behind.

  To her back are the Pfeist Mountains, the towering range of snow-capped mountains that separates the country of Larynth from its neighbor, Denand. In the past decade, heated trade demands and a transfer of power from late father to daughter had stirred tension between the two countries. The nobles of Inonin, Larynth's richest province and those closest to the border, were becoming nervous, scratching at the royal council for a formal inquiry. Reports of scouts filtering in from the mountains had flooded the castle and Drair had been sent for reconnaissance in the wake of a letter from the city of Bedar.

  About two hundred yards from the castle's walls, Drair spots the young scout crouched behind a rock formation, his shaggy red hair damp with sweat. His horse is nearby, panting, a rear foot cocked in rest. She's soaked, patches of white foam clinging to her belly. A small, worn knapsack is secured to her saddle.

  On the outrider's waist, Drair spots a single, poorly made dagger hanging from his belt. He wears a pair of tan leather boots on his feet, threads fraying at the heel. Perspiration soaks his red hair. He's a member of the Pfeist mountain tribes, their fine hair and skin accustomed only to a snowy, cold environment. Though the tribes touted their own methods of governing, they were beholden to the queen of Denand. They were poor and primitive, a supposed vestige of their ancestors. But as Denand struggled, so did they, and their numbers dwindled, the younger generation leaving home to look for employment in the heart of the valley below. The young scout before her was undoubtedly promised a small fortune for a quick return with valuable intelligence. A smart move on the queen's part, to choose an eager tribesman with little knowledge of his country's affairs. If captured, he would be useless in interrogation.

  Making no effort to conceal herself, Drair slides her katar blade out from under her gauntlet and begins to close the distance between her and the young man. The moment she caught sight of him thundering across the plains, his fate was sealed. A small price to pay for confidentiality. It was astonishing that a boy with such lack of experience had slipped past the castle's archers in the first place.

  Her boots crunch over dry grass between them. She hears the scout's stuttering breaths over the breeze as she nears his back. The dagger at his belt shifts as he moves a crouched leg, his attention glued to the archers standing guard on the castle's battlements. As she approaches the boy, the acrid scent of horse and perspiration meets her nostrils. His pale face turns as Drair looms behind him, hearing her steps too late. A gasp leaves his cracked lips as he starts to stand. His eyes, a vivid green, land on the right side of her face where a leather patch covers her eye. Snaking her right arm around his neck, the blade in her left hand presses hard into the soft flesh at his throat, blood seeping from the wound as it opens. His thin, pale arm reaches back toward the right side of her face, flailing desperately for the back of her head, where the eyepatch's leather strips are tied. She squeezes her arm tighter around his neck.

  "Leave him, Drair."

  Her katar stalls, dark eye darting toward the voice. The scout freezes, breath hitched in his lungs, his arm dangling in the air. With her left hand, Drair slips her katar back into its gauntlet and smacks the boy's arm from her face, winding her free arm around his chest. He growls, a savage, wild sound, and strains against her.

  "Nathis," she drawls, glaring at the armored man stepping their way. He carries a pair of shackles at his side, clinking against the sword strapped to his waist. His short-cropped hair, graying at the sides, shines with sweat.

  Beneath her, the scout pushes his feet into the sand, kicking back toward her legs. The clang of metal sounds as his dagger drops to the dirt. Drair releases her hold and grabs each sinewy arm, dragging his bony wrists to meet at the scoop of his lower back. His shoulder pops. The boy whimpers.

  "This was my responsibility," she says, holding the boy to her chest as he struggles. She is a few inches taller than him, not a drop of sweat on her body.

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  "I understand that Prince Taeg instructed you to apprehend and capture the scout--preferably alive," Nathis says, raising his hands to spread the shackles apart as he steps to the boy. "I hope you were using that blade only to capture our guest." His gray-blue eyes meet hers, an eyebrow raised, then drop to the outrider desperately thrashing to free himself. He slips each shackle onto the boy's wrists, clicking his tongue as he tightens them as small as they will go.

  "So young," Nathis sighs. "We saw him coming from a mile away." He stoops to pick up the scout's dagger and fastens it to his sword belt. "Silon has no admonitions against using every poor soul who grovels at her feet." He glances at the sorrel mare, her head hanging. "I will take him down to the cells. Can you bring his horse to the stables for me? She looks a little worse for wear." He nods to the panting mare. Clasping a large, weathered hand around the scout's arm, he pulls the outrider from Drair's grasp. "We will begin questioning at sunfall if you would like to join us," he says. "Pray that I make it through Lark's training in the coming hour." The older man chuckles, laugh lines rising on his ashen face.

  Drair shifts backward and gazes absentmindedly at the mare. In the hierarchy of the royal Guard, she ranks lower than Nathis. He is the prince's oldest family guard, knighted as an army general since the reign of Prince Taeg's father, Roen Kerrich. His roots run thick and deep in the art of warfare, but the man's passive demeanor might suggest otherwise. Her blatant refusal to use his appropriate title never seems to chip away at his visage.

  She says nothing as the general leads the captive scout away. The mare gawks at her as she grabs the reins, pulling her across the cracked ground to the west side of the castle where the stables reside. A wiry boy no older than seven meets her. His eyes are hard, glaring as he offers a hand to take the horse's reins. She flings them in his direction, turning back toward the castle.

  The castle looms overhead, a tawny structure with four towers along each battlement. Infantry pace the expanse of their perch, sweating in the heat. Inside the walls, the thump and clang of training steel echoes across the grounds. As she makes her way south along the western battlement, a postern door appears in the wavering heat on the underside of the walls, an entryway for kitchen staff and servants. She heaves the oaken door open, hinges groaning, and steps into the larder. The smell of mildew and damp earth saturates the air. Scores of wine and barrels of mead line the walls and cover the floor. She swipes a bottle from an upper shelf, brushing the dust from its surface, and stalks into the kitchen, startling several staff members. Ignoring them and plucking a wooden goblet from a cabinet, Drair slips out and makes her way through the halls to the prince's throne room.

  She finds him sitting limply at the long table in the middle of the great hall, dark hair drooping around his face as he stares at a pile of parchment littering the tabletop. The room is quiet, its expanse rising two stories. Through the tall, open windows behind the ornate throne at the prince's back, you can see the capital port, the ships as small as toys from this distance. It is muggy, with the occasional breeze the only respite from the heat.

  The prince's dispirited emerald eyes flit to Drair as she slams the goblet down at the other end, popping the cork from the wine bottle with practiced ease. He sighs. "Fancy meeting you here." He glances at the rich red wine gurgling from the bottle as she pours. "I hope that's for me," he says. A smile cracks around his lips and he scrapes his bulky chair from the edge of the table to lean back. "Nathis informed me that you succeeded in apprehending the scout. I was hoping something could go right for us."

  "The only thing we succeeded in apprehending is a useless, hungry tribesman doing Silon's dirty work just to feed himself." Drair drains the goblet in one flush and slams it onto the table again.

  "I'm aware that your perceptual skills are second to none, but how exactly do you come to this conclusion?" He pauses. "Nathis also told me you saw fit to execute the scout."

  His bright eyes are settled on Drair almost comically. The prince is a young man in his early twenties. His father had died years before when Taeg was just twelve – an affliction of the heart, the physicians had said – and Taeg's mother, Vilania, had taken her place on the throne as Queen Regent. Drair had joined the castle staff a year past and it was Taeg who'd taken her on. She'd not seen the Queen show her face in the throne room or otherwise.

  She pours another cup, remembering the eyes of the red-headed outrider. Planting her hands on the table, she shoots Taeg a look of indifference before taking another sip of wine.

  "I'm just not understanding why you'd want to execute the first scout we've been able to capture." He crosses his arms, the metal bangles at his wrist chiming. He looks tired.

  Drair swallows, staring listlessly out the rear windows. "He's a scrawny, red-headed kid sweating through his tattered boots. Any valuable spy of Silon's would've known to prepare himself better than a measly knapsack and a chipped dagger." Her voice is drawling, sarcastic. She takes another sip. "Anyone stupid enough to ride a branded stable mare into enemy territory lacks the fundamental knowledge of a scout. He is no spy. He knows nothing. She gave him the horse to get him here. If he didn't make it, it was no loss of her's."

  She swallows the rest of the wine down. Pouring another cup, she carries it and the rest of the bottle down the length of the table, placing them at his side. She holds his gaze shackled for only a moment, his eyes boring into her one.

  "That's for you when you realize I'm right," she points to the goblet, "and the rest of the bottle for when you see fit to appoint me as a Royal Guard. It's been a year, Taeg." She turns on her heel, stalking toward the double doors.

  She hears him chuckle, the sound hollow in the spacious room, and a warm bolt of anger sears up her spine. "Tygoh and Nathis will be down to interrogate the Denand scout before the day is done, if you'd like to make your case." His voice carries through the door as she exits, following her like a petulant child.