A Vow So Bold and Deadly (The Cursebreaker Series Book 3)

Freya, my lady-in-waiting, is lacing me into a corseted gown. The bodice is white silk, with red stitching and golden grommets edged by rubies, laced over the top of a layer of shimmering red voile spilling over crimson underskirts. The laces of the bodice are gold satin. The neckline is low and daring, and if I try to bend over, I’ll have a wardrobe malfunction. I generally gravitate toward the breeches and sweaters—the wool blousons, as Freya calls them—in my wardrobe, and I have dozens of stunning dresses for when I need to dress up, but this is by far the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever worn. Even my boots are red leather with gold trim along the heel.

Rhen sent word to all of his Grand Marshals a week ago, and I’ve been dreading this “party” since the instant he mentioned it, but it’s nice to feel pretty for five minutes. As much as I try not to think about it, the scar on my cheek and the limp in my step are a constant reminder that I’ll never be classically beautiful or effortlessly graceful. I’m confident in my strengths, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about my weaknesses.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if the choice to stay here is a weakness.

But where would I go? I can’t go back to Washington, DC—and even if I could, what would I do? We disappeared in the middle of the night, facing a man with a gun. Our family’s apartment has probably been emptied out and rented to someone else now. I have no identification, no documents, nothing.

Without warning, I think of my mother, and the memory of her death almost smothers me. We lost her because of cancer. We lost everything else because of my father.

My chest grows tight, and I can’t breathe.

“Here, my lady,” says Freya. “Look.” She turns me to face the mirror.

It’s a huge testament to this dress that it jerks my thoughts away from a downward spiral. In the mirror, it’s even better than it looked laid across the bed. “Freya,” I breathe. “Where did you find this?”

“Ordered by His Highness.” Her blue eyes flick up to meet mine in the mirror, and her voice drops. “In the colors of Emberfall.”

“Oh.” I lose the smile. It’s not just a pretty dress. It’s a political statement.

“From what I understand,” she adds as she smooths my skirts, “he ordered a dress for Zo as well.”

“Really?”

She nods.

Freya is ten years older than I am, and since I helped rescue her and her children from an attack by Syhl Shallow’s soldiers, she’s been my lady-in-waiting in the palace. In a way, she’s also been like a surrogate mother. She knows about Zo and what we did for Grey. She knows how it’s driven a wedge between me and Rhen—and maybe driven a sliver between me and Zo.

It might have caused tension between me and Freya too, because I know how she feels about Syhl Shallow. Their soldiers destroyed her home, leaving her and the children shivering in the snow. Leaving them with nothing until Rhen offered her a position here in the castle. But the night Rhen had Grey and Tycho beaten, she was as horrified as I was. She’d never speak a word against Rhen, but I remember the hard set of her jaw, the way her breath had trembled.

I need to stop thinking about this. It was months ago. I made a choice. I stayed.

And it’s not like Grey isn’t planning to strike back.

“Why did he order a dress for Zo?” I say. Zo wasn’t planning to come to the party. She doesn’t like being in a position that reminds her of being a guardsman, and she definitely doesn’t like being in the same room as Rhen.

If he sent her a dress, I wonder how she took it. Worse, I wonder how he meant it. When it comes to strategic planning, Rhen can be downright brilliant—but he can also be an epic ass.

Freya arranges my hair across my shoulder, adjusting a pin here and there. “Well, I presume he hoped she would attend with you.” She pauses. “Perhaps His Highness wants a guard-who-is-not-a-guard at your side. Jamison said the soldiers are antsy because it is rumored that an attack from Syhl Shallow could occur at any moment.”

I glance at Freya in the mirror. “When did you talk to Jamison?” The soldier was one of the first to lend support to Rhen and Grey when I convinced them to leave the grounds of Ironrose and help their people. He’s another person who hates Syhl Shallow, after one of their soldiers took his arm and destroyed most of his regiment when he was stationed in Willminton. Now he’s a lieutenant in the regiment stationed nearby, but he’s rarely inside the castle.

“When I took the children to visit Evalyn last week,” she says. “We saw him on the road back.” She pauses. “He was very kind. He accompanied us to the castle.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what to make of that. I used to spend so much time with the guards and soldiers. I would train alongside them. I’d be included in their banter and gossip. For the first time in my life, no one treated me like a liability. Like I was incapable. I felt like I belonged.

Now every interaction I have feels weighted with suspicion. I didn’t realize how important that feeling of belonging had grown until it was gone.

Now the only person I train with is Zo.

I have to clear my throat. I wish I’d known Freya was going to see Evalyn, because I would have joined her, just for an excuse to talk to someone. But maybe I wasn’t welcome.

I hate this.

A knock sounds at my door, and my breath catches. It’s probably Rhen, so I call, “Enter.”

It’s not Rhen. It’s Zo. The door swings open and she strides in, wearing a dress in a darker crimson than my own, her bodice so dark it’s almost black, with cherry-red lacings. Her muscled arms are bare, her braids twisting down her back to her waist.

“Wow,” I say.

Zo smiles and offers me a curtsy. “You too.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

She shrugs a little. “I … wasn’t sure I was.” She strokes her hands along the skirts and sighs. “But it would be foolish to offend the crown prince again.”

I frown.

“Don’t look like that,” she says. “I thought maybe you’d want a friend anyway.”

Against my will, tears fill my eyes, and I step forward to hug her.

Her arms are tight against my back, but she says, “You’ll undo all of Freya’s hard work.”

“You’re such a good friend,” I say. “I don’t deserve you.”

She draws back to look at me, her eyes searching mine. “Yes, you do.”

Freya steps forward and begins pinning tiny white flowers into my hair. She has red ones in her hands, and I expect her to add them, but she turns to Zo. “Here,” she says. “A finishing touch.”

Zo holds still, her hands gentle on mine.

In another life, we’d be getting ready for prom, not getting ready for a party that’s really an excuse to build alliances in anticipation of war.

I draw a shaky breath.

Zo’s eyes are steady on mine. “You rallied them once before,” she says quietly.

“I have no armies this time,” I whisper. “I have nothing to offer.”

She regards me soberly, then leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “You had none then, Princess.”

That’s true. Somehow I’d forgotten. My breathing steadies.

When I first came here, I knew what was right. I risked my life for this country. So did Grey, a thousand times over. I would never have allowed anyone to make me feel guilty for helping the people of Emberfall. I would never have let anyone make me feel like I’d made a poor choice by helping Grey.

I shouldn’t be allowing it now.

As we turn for the door, I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror. The dresses are truly stunning together, a clear signal that we stand for Emberfall.

Rhen once asked me to be his ally, to present a united front to his people. To stand at his side. This … this is different. I’m not a billboard.

Anger, familiar and not entirely unwelcome, builds in my belly, chasing away everything else.

“Wait,” I say, pulling Zo to a stop. “Freya?” I tug the bow of my bodice loose. “We’re both going to need another dress.”

Rhen has spared no expense, and considering that he only issued a summons for this “party” a week ago, I’m sure it wasn’t cheap. The call for loyalty to Emberfall is evident in every red tablecloth, in every gold candlestick, in the massive crest hung over the fireplace in the Great Hall. Musicians have been stationed in the corner, their playing lively and vibrant, a melody chosen to project confidence. The castle doors stand open, allowing the night air to flow into the space. Guards stand at assigned intervals, their weapons and armor gleaming, while servants carry loaded trays to the tables. I can smell the food from the top of the staircase.

The hour is still early, so only a few dozen people fill the room. These will be the true loyalists, the Grand Marshals and their Seneschals from towns who’ve already sworn fealty to Rhen. These will be the people who want to be seen arriving first, as if they’re among the prince’s inner circle, even though Rhen himself hasn’t deigned to join them yet. They’ve brought their own guards, too, which isn’t unusual, but a bunch of armed men and women lining the walls doesn’t make for a very welcoming party.

A page at the top of the staircase steps forward as if he’s planning to announce us, but I wave him away. My heart thrums in my chest, and I smooth my hands along the navy blue of my skirts. The last thing I need is for Rhen to hear us being announced without him. He’d be pissed, and I’d probably knock him down the stairs.

I hate feeling this way.

Zo studies me, and as usual, she can practically read my thoughts. “We have not yet been announced,” she murmurs. “We can return to your chambers. There is still time to wear the dresses he selected.”

“No.” I glance at her and wish I could read her thoughts. “I mean—we can. If you want.”

Her eyes stare into mine. “I didn’t want to before.”

That makes me smile. I squeeze her hand and head down the stairs.

Without being announced, we don’t draw much attention. I’m sure Rhen knows every single person here by name, but I don’t know them all, especially the people who are from more distant cities. I spot Micah Rennells, a trade advisor who meets with Rhen once a week. He’s one of the least genuine people I’ve ever met, and the false flattery he lavishes on Rhen makes me want to stick a finger down my throat. Zo and I head in the opposite direction, toward a table that has been laid out with glasses filled in an alternating pattern of red wine and glistening gold champagne.

Wow.

“You think anyone will even notice we’re not wearing gold and red?” I whisper to Zo, and she grins. I take a glass for each of us, and it’s tempting to drain mine in one swallow.

Then I turn around and find myself face-to-face with a shortish man with weathered, tan skin, gray hair, and troubled blue eyes. If I met him in Washington, DC, I’d say he looked like retired military, because he has that kind of stature: fit and trim and very upright. His clothes are elegant but also simple: a dark jacket buckled over a red shirt, calfskin breeches, and tall, polished boots with worn laces.

“My lady,” he says in surprise, and his voice is rough and raspy but not unkind. He offers me a bow and glances past me before returning his eyes to mine. “Forgive me. I did not realize you had joined the party.”

When he extends a hand, I take it and curtsy. “I haven’t been here long.” I search my memory banks for his name and come up with nothing. I bite the edge of my lip before reminding myself to knock it off. “I’m so sorry. I don’t recall if we’ve met before.”

He offers a small smile. “We have, but it was a different time, and I have not traveled to Ironrose since Karis Luran was driven out of Emberfall. I am Conrad Macon, the Grand Marshal of Rillisk.”

Rillisk. I freeze. Rillisk is where Grey went into hiding after he ran from his birthright. When we spent months thinking he was dead.

Conrad’s expression goes still as well, and that troubled look returns to his eyes. “I was a bit relieved to receive His Highness’s invitation to attend tonight. We have heard rumors that Rillisk may have fallen out of favor after … after the false heir was found hiding in our city.” He pauses, and the tiniest note of desperation crawls into his voice. “We have always been loyal to the Crown, my lady, I assure you we had no idea—”

“Of course,” I say quickly. “Rhen has no doubt.” I think. I hope.

Relief blooms in his eyes. “Oh. Well. Perhaps the rumors will quiet. Since the heir—” He stumbles over his words. “Forgive me, since the false heir was captured in Rillisk, we have struggled a bit for trade, and we are not a seaport town—”

“Silvermoon is a seaport town,” says another man, “and we are also struggling.” I turn and recognize this one. Grand Marshal Anscom Perry, from Silvermoon Harbor. He’s got thick hair, thick pale skin, and a thick midsection that’s asking a lot from his jacket. I liked Marshal Perry’s amical demeanor when we met him in Silvermoon, but then he attempted to close his gates on Rhen.

I’m surprised he’s here, honestly.

“Marshal Perry,” I say evenly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“It’s not a pleasure to be here,” he says, blustering. “The invitation implied I’d be brought by force if I didn’t show up willingly. I only have so many soldiers left.”

I falter and glance at Zo, but she meets my eyes and gives a minute shake of her head. She’s no longer a part of the Royal Guard. She doesn’t know what messages Rhen sent.

“I am certain you misunderstood,” I begin.

“You are certain?” says a woman’s voice, cutting me off. Marshal Earla Vail of … oof, I can’t remember. She’s from somewhere north of here, a town near the mountains that lead into Syhl Shallow. She’s in her seventies, with thick graying hair and dark brown skin. Despite her age, she wears a sword on one hip and a dagger on another. “Much like you were certain that your father would send an army to help protect Emberfall?”

“My father’s army was not needed,” I say tightly. My heart is slamming along inside my rib cage.

“Emberfall was victorious thanks to Princess Harper alone,” says Zo, and there’s heat in her voice.

“Not without loss. Perhaps your father’s army stands ready to assist Syhl Shallow,” says another man, and enough people have begun to swarm around me that I can’t even see who’s speaking.

“Yes,” says Conrad. “Have Disi’s alliances shifted? Your crown prince has joined with those monsters over the mountain.”

“Perhaps their princess has,” says Marshal Vail, staring at me pointedly. “Karis Luran may be dead, but those soldiers from Syhl Shallow slaughtered people by the thousands—”

I suck in a breath. “I am not—”

“What kind of game is Disi playing?” says another woman. “Are you here to distract the prince while your father’s armies lend support to Syhl Shallow?”

“That’s not what’s happening,” says Zo, her voice low and tight.

“Or perhaps Princess Harper has been kept out of the negotiations,” says Marshal Perry.

“I have not been kept out of negotiations,” I snap, but I hear someone make a scoffing sound near my shoulder, and two of the Grand Marshals exchange a glance. They all begin to press closer, and I wish I could call for guards. But since I helped Grey, Rhen’s guards have made it very clear that they are sworn to him—not to me.

“Why are you not accompanied by the prince?” Marshal Perry continues.

“I … well, he … ah—”

“My lady,” Prince Rhen says smoothly from behind me, and I jump.

The people surrounding me back away so quickly that it’s like they’re being dragged.

“Your Highness,” they say. The men bow. Ladies curtsy.

Rhen ignores them, his eyes finding mine. He steps forward to take my hand and kiss my knuckles, but I can’t read anything in his expression. “Forgive me,” he says, using my hand to draw me close. His voice is warm and low in a way I haven’t heard in … a while. “I did not realize I would be so delayed.”

I swallow. “Forgiven.”

He turns to face the people, keeping my hand wrapped in his. “The night is young. Perhaps we can spend an hour enjoying each other’s company before we begin arguing over politics?” He nods to the servants laying food along the tables. “Or at least wait until after the food is served. It would be a pity to waste this fine meal. Anscom, the valet in the corner is pouring sugared spirits. I remember how much you enjoyed a glass with my father.”

Marshal Perry of Silvermoon clears his throat. “Ah … yes. Of course, Your Highness.”

Rhen offers them a nod, then looks at me. “Shall we, my lady?”

Shall we what? But he rescued me, and he’s not being a jerk, so I nod. “Yes, certainly.”

He turns to walk, keeping me close, his pace slow and languorous.

I look up at him. “Where are we going?”

He draws me closer and leans down a bit, his lips brushing against my temple in a way that makes me blush and shiver because it’s so unexpected. I’d forgotten he could be like this. He hasn’t said a word about the dress, either.

Then he says, “To dance.”

I almost trip over my feet. “Wait. Rhen—”

“Shh.” He leads me onto the marble floor, and his hand closes on my waist.

We’re surrounded by dozens of people, many of whom just accused me of being a traitor. I hadn’t expected them to be like … that, and I definitely don’t want to dance in front of them like none of it bothered me. But I also don’t want to cause more of a scene than I already have.

“I hate to dance,” I whisper.

“I know.” Rhen turns to face me, and his hand finds mine. “I hate to be thrust into political maneuvering without preparation. Yet here we are.”

My mouth forms a line, but the song is slower now and I’m not as hopeless at this as I once was. I let him lead. “You’re mad.”

“Do I seem so?” he says affably.

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought I was hiding it rather admirably.” He pauses, and his eyes search mine. “Is your intent for us to be at odds here, my lady?”

I study him, trying to figure him out. There’s a part of me that’s happy he’s angry, that I’m not the only one battling resentment here. There’s a part of me that’s immeasurably sad, too. Like I could punch him in the face and then run off sobbing.

“If it is,” Rhen continues, “I wish you had come to me, instead of demonstrating it to all of Emberfall.”

I frown and look away. He might be able to look happy while all of this is going on, but I can’t do it. Music swirls through the room, and I remember that first night he taught me to dance on a cliff at Silvermoon. When I said to him, “I want to make sure it’s real.” He wanted it to be real, too—and for the longest time, I felt like it was.

But then I started to doubt myself. To doubt him.

When I say nothing, Rhen’s voice turns careful. “Were you displeased with the gown I had sent for you?” He pauses, his voice gaining the barest hint of an edge. “Or was the displeasure Zo’s?”

“It was mine,” I say. “If you’re pissed at me, don’t take it out on her.”

He looks a bit incredulous. “You believe I would?”

“I believe you’ll do whatever you want to do.”

His hand tightens on mine, and he turns me a little more sharply than necessary. “I have been more than fair to Zo.”

That’s probably true, and I glance away. “Fine.”

He’s quiet, but I can feel the tension in his body now. No one else has dared to enter the dance floor, so maybe they can sense it.

“I don’t want to be a pawn,” I say tightly. “That dress made me look like one.”

“I rather doubt it.”

He probably means it like a compliment, but it feels dismissive. “It made me feel like one.” I swallow, and my throat is tight. “So I asked Freya to find me another one.” He inhales, and I add, “Don’t take it out on her either.”

He doesn’t flinch from my gaze. “I have done nothing to your friends, my lady. And I would never hold them accountable for your actions.”

“Is that a threat?” I demand.

He blinks, startled. “What? No. I do not—”

“Because Grey spent his life doing everything you asked, and the first time he didn’t, you strung him up on that wall.”

He jerks back like I’ve slapped him. We’re not dancing anymore. There’s suddenly an icy distance between us. Music pours across the dance floor, but we’re motionless in the center of it. The crowd has gone silent, and there’s a weighted tension in the air.

I’m breathless, too.

I can’t believe I said that.

Until the words fell out of my mouth, I never admitted to myself that I felt that.

Rhen’s gaze could cut steel. So could mine, I’m sure.

Zo appears at my side. “My lady,” she says smoothly. “A matter requires your attention.”

My body feels like it’s turned to stone. Rhen hasn’t moved, and I can’t breathe. I probably could have slapped him and generated less interest.

Maybe he’s right—I should have talked to him privately. But I can’t undo what’s been done. I can’t unsay what’s been said.

I grab hold of my skirt and give him a curtsy. “Your Highness.”

Without waiting for a response, without even a backward glance, I stride out of the hall.