I blink, and Prince Madoc vanishes. The guard stands before me, scowling, his hand reaching for the weapon at his waist.

  No. I need to save my anger for King Afon.

  I close my eyes and bow my head, taking a deep breath.

  The guard is watching me, his hand still on his weapon, but I’m not here to start a war. I step out of line, keeping my eyes down.

  The gurek are gone.

  I walk away from the manor, from the line of villagers desperate to plead their case before the king. I feel their eyes on me, and I lift my chin, walking tall, letting them think I’m unaffected by the rejection.

  But I’m shaking, my breathing is too fast, and my eyes burn.

  I turn out of the palisade into the bustling market, and the moment I’m out of sight, I break into a run. The tears slide free, streaking down my face, blurring my vision.

  A maiden steps out from one of the booths in the market, pulling a cart of corn behind her. She steps right in front of me, probably not expecting a half-mad peasant to come barreling over the cobblestone at her, and before I can slow down, I crash into her.

  “Watch out!” I cry, but it’s too late. My hands go out to shield me from the impact, and I knock her back onto the street before landing on top of her. The cart follows, moving slowly and then gaining momentum on the slight slope. I pivot enough to see the wheels coming toward us. Without thinking, I throw my hands out to stop it and utter, “Stop!”

  But the word that escapes is not Breton. By pure protective instinct, I slipped into the Old Language: Oedi.

  At the same instant, blue gurek swarm around the cart, and it comes to a complete halt.

  I suck in a breath as a tremor of fear shudders through me. I spin back to the girl beneath me, waiting for her to scream out or accuse me, but she says, breathless, her eyes wide, “What just happened?”

  “The cart—” I begin. “It was—moving toward us.”

  “The cart?” She shoves me off her and lifts her head, then breathes a sigh of relief when she sees it. “I didn’t lose my cargo.” She sits up and brushes her hands on her tunic.

  I sit in stunned silence, digesting her words.

  She doesn’t know what I did.

  I push to my knees, gathering myself together. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying any attention. Are you injured? Can I do anything?”

  She gets to her feet and puts a steadying hand on the cart. Her sharp eyes examine me. “It is rather heavy to haul. And I’ll be late now, thanks to you. Not to mention my tunic is soiled.”

  “I can help.” I push myself up. “Two hands are better than one.” I offer a smile. She’s near my age, and the town isn’t so large that we won’t run into each other again. The desire for a friend burns through me keenly. I’ve lost everything. I’m desperate to connect with someone.

  But then she smirks at me, and I remember. I’m not a girl, and she’s mistaken my smile as a pathetic attempt at flirting from of an adolescent boy.

  “I accept your help,” she says, adopting a regal tone of voice. She releases the cart. “You can push.”

  My face burns, and I look away from her. “Where are we going?”

  “The manor. It’s a delivery for the royal kitchens.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  I stumble against an uneven piece of cobblestone, stubbing my toe. But I hardly notice the sharp sting. “The manor?” I choke on the word.

  She gives me an amused look. “Yes. But no need to fear for your life. The king won’t notice you. ”

  It’s not fear that has my heart racing, but anticipation.

  This could get me in.

  “I’m not afraid,” I say, and it makes her laugh. I set my jaw and resolve to keep quiet.

  “I’m Hafren,” she says, pausing to wipe her brow. Her face is red with exertion. Judging from the heat we’ve felt thus far this season, the summer will be a scorcher.

  “Myrddin,” I say. The word is still stiff on my tongue. “Master Anarawd’s new servant.”

  “Myrddin.” She smirks again. “Strange name.” She falls silent, breathing hard as I push and she pulls the cart up the hill toward the fort.

  We don’t approach through the courtyard but instead go around the back to another gated entry.

  “Delivery for the royal kitchens,” Hafren says, and the soldiers lift the gates for her.

  They don’t give me a second look.

  We enter the manor from a door in the back. Silence echoes around us as we pull the cart down the corridor, the click of the wheels over the uneven ground the only sound. Even my footsteps are silent. The cool stones underfoot sooth the rough patches of my feet, and I glance down at the rock. Roman-built. Not even Anarawd has stone floors.

  Little light enters this area, and torches set a few feet apart light the hall. The stone blocks the heat of the sun, and I can imagine it gets quite cold come winter.

  We turn another corner, and the smells and sounds of a kitchen at work reach us. Chopping and squawking and boiling.

  A plump, red-cheeked woman wearing an apron long stained by food preparation spins around at the sound of the cart wheels clicking near.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she says, knocking aside pots and boards as she shoves her way over to the cart. “Nice to see your face here. Rather than dealing with that Ifanna.” The woman grabs a large cleaver and hacks off a piece of the salted meat she has laid up on the board, which she then offers to Hafren.

  “Thank you,” Hafren says. “Have you any water, Jenna?”

  The woman also hands me a piece of meat before offering a ladle of water to Hafren.

  “You’re new?” she asks me.

  “I’m a stable boy, working for Master Anarawd,” I respond, nibbling at the succulent venison. The flavors of salty and sweet melt onto my tongue, tastier than anything Master Anarawd serves us. Or maybe it’s because I spent the previous evening vomiting. I glance around the kitchen. I’m here. I’m in the manor. But how do I approach the king and plea my case?

  The woman grunts and focuses on me. “Got more of you stable boys at the house of Anarawd?”

  “Yes,” I say. “There is Gar, who works with me. And Rhys and Hywel.”

  “Bring them to the castle tomorrow after noon. Tell Master Anarawd he’ll be compensated.”

  “For what?” I glance at the pile of corn in the cart. “Shucking corn?”

  “The king wants only boys serving at the feast tonight. Tis a big one.”

  Serving at a feast? I’d rather shuck corn. “Stable hands might not be the best serving boys, mistress,” I say.

  Jenna waves off my concern. “It’s not a difficult job. I can train you. Master Anarawd will be well paid.”

  “Yes, mistress. I’ll convey the wishes to Master Anarawd.”

  “Good. I’m sure he’ll be in agreement. Be here shortly after the noon meal.”

  “Yes, Mistress. The king usually needs this much corn?”

  “Nah. This celebration is special. The prince has passed his twentieth year.”

  The prince. I freeze mid-swallow, my mind conjuring an image of the stormy-eyed, light-haired boy. I’ve not allowed myself to think on him since the brutal executions, but the mention of him draws him again to my mind, followed by a sweltering combination of anger and irritation.

  “Twentieth?” I choke out. He’s younger than I thought.

  The du pulse around me, breathing in and out.

  But not just the du. The gurek hum around my skin, tempering the du, creating a juxtaposition of the opposing forces.

  So much energy warring for my attention.

  “Aye,” Jenna says. “The prince is a man now. It’s to be an even bigger feast than his sister’s was last spring. I believe the king is forming his alliances.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Hafren gives a dreamy sigh. “All the noblemen that turned up for Morgana’s celebration—”

  “That’s Princess Morgana to you,” Jenna huffs, making a half-hearted attempt to swat Hafren.

  Hafren doesn’t even react. “Such beautiful boys like I never saw. And all of them eyeing one woman. What I wouldn’t give to be her.”

  “And that’s why we’re hiring stable boys to help serve. None of these pretty maids to distract King Wthyr’s son from the noble guests.” Jenna waves a hand at Hafren, who giggles.

  “Ah, you jest. Prince Arthur would never look twice my way. Not even once, I dare say!” she says.

  I force my breathing to remain even.

  If Master Anarawd agrees, I’ll be serving at a feast where the king is present. I’ll be in the same room as him.

  But it’s Prince Arthur who darts back into my thoughts.

  I know how princes act. How princes think. Prince Madoc’s face, his jeering smile, his lolling tongue, pops into my mind again, and my skin prickles with darkness. Gray fragments like ash color the air when I exhale.

  I will make him pay for who he is. For what he’s done in the name of royalty.