Page 130 of Spar of Hearts

She did insist. Anything to stay beside Roderick a little longer.

But it didn’t last.

Chapter 43

Anya Delemond

The gate glowed a soft green, then clinked and groaned as it slid into the slits in the outer wall. A gargantuan, flowering Yew tree shadowed the manicured path to the inner portcullis, which lifted to reveal sharp points at the bottom of each bar as they passed beneath it. Beyond it lay a training ground, judging by the wooden dummies and stands overflowing with dull swords. Weres and Elves sparred with each other, exchanging spirited parries and jabs that slowed to a halt as the knights strode past with Roderick and Anya in tow. Every eye bore into them with an unsettling mix of fear and hate.

As the sunlight changed to the shadowed glow of mage lights inside, Anya looked at Roderick, who gave her a worried look. She didn’t adore this plan either, but what other choice did they have? Turning back would spit in the face of the Prince’s hospitality, leaving them with only less-than-legal options to garner the mana stones they needed—and she refused to turn the Lupus Star crew into an unwitting band of pirates.

Their path intersected with an Elven maid, who nearly dropped the towels in her arms with a gasp. She darted back into the hall and hid behind a burly Were footman. The footman looked confused until she whispered in his ear and his eyes grew wide.

Corridor after corridor the fear-filled ritual repeated, until they reached elegantly scrolled double doors. Shimmering opulence assaulted Anya’s every sense as they passed the threshold arm in arm. The temperate spring air vanished behind them, replaced by a wintry chill. Delicate clinking drew Anya’s eye to the ceiling, where ice chandeliers hung from slate stone vaults.

They approached a long, glossy table spread with a glacier-blue runner. Beyond it, upon the dais, sat the Winter Prince, a silver crown of sapphires on his head reflecting the shining ice sculptures around him.

Anya slipped her arm from Roderick’s and curtsied, tipping her head down. He followed suit and bowed low.

“Rise,” the Prince said calmly. His husky voice resonated through the icy hall.

They straightened in tandem, and Anya finally looked upon her diplomatic foe for the ages. A hulking, sharp-beaked bird sat on a gilded perch beside the throne, watching them with unsettling intensity. There was something familiar about it, but she couldn't quite place it amid the mounting pressure of the conversation ahead.

The Prince rose from his silver-gilded throne and approached. Without a word to Roderick, he leveled his blue gaze at Anya. “Allow me to show you to your seat.” He offered his arm. She cast a glance back at Roderick. The tension in his shoulders betrayed his composure, but he nodded subtly.

She reluctantly accepted and they sat, with her and Roderick on opposite sides of the table and the Prince at the head between them. It was only a few feet, but it felt much further in such an unfamiliar environment. Per etiquette, it also meant she couldn’t converse with Roderick. Not that there was much to say just between the two of them with the Prince present.

Roderick’s eyes darted from the knights posted in the arcade, to the Prince, with a flicker of concern every time his gaze landed back on her. She couldn’t see it, but she could hear the gentle pop of his knuckles muffled under the table.

Nervous servants brought out steaming trays of cod, mutton, fragrant herbed barley, potatoes and carrots. Serving a polite amount of each item onto her plate, Anya reached for the carving knife for the mutton.

“Allow me,” the Prince said. With a flick of his wrist, white magic illuminated the hilt of the knife. It sawed gently back and forth, then with his other hand, he directed a perfect slice of mutton onto Anya’s plate. He repeated the gesture with a bottle of wine.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

The Prince having such abilities should have been expected. He was the guardian of the southern border after all, and the amount of mana necessary to keep up the wards around the glacial wall must be extraordinary, unless it was some innate, ancient spell tied to the land itself. Still, seeing a Were perform such powerful magical ministrations stoked her curiosity. Weres with mana affinity were incredibly rare in Valeria. Was it more common at one time? Was it something her people lost? Or was the Prince an exception?

A smile quirked the Prince’s lips. “You are curious about my magic.”

“Perhaps a bit,” Anya admitted, analyzing the piece of parsnip speared on her fork. “Such abilities are not common among Lycanians in the south.”

“Hm. It is a pity your kind are deprived of its wonders. Magic among Weres is rare here, but still present. But alas, human blood and magic do not—and should not—mix.”

Roderick’s jaw ticked. She gave him a subtle, pleading look, trying to convey let me handle this as nicely as possible. This was her battleground.

“Lycanians,” she repeated pointedly, “may not have magic, but that does not mean our lives are not full and happy.”

“You may think that—”

“I know that.”

She sipped her wine in stately victory, eyes not leaving the Prince as she did so. The Prince’s gaze fell on the gold band on her wrist.

“In any case, I am pleased to see you are able to connect with your ancestors. Mother Moon must favor you indeed.”

“It is luck, not favor.”

“Then you are quite the four-leaf clover, Princess Anya. I must laud you on your journey. The tenacity that brought you here is most admirable.”