Immortals sheathed their swords and withdrew. Devren went with them, his eyes hooded and unfriendly. Drannic went last of all. Before he turned, his left eyelid fluttered in a surreptitious wink. The lunassera had already bled away into the rocks. For better or for worse, Melanna and her father were alone. Or as alone as could be with wary eyes watching from either end of the roadway.

Melanna’s father remained silent and motionless. She gritted her teeth and kept the sword level, determined not to cede even so petty a victory. At last, he swung down from the saddle. His fingers brushed the scabbard’s leather.

“Keep it.”

“Thank you, my prince.” Stifling a sigh of relief, Melanna eased the sword to the ground. “May I stand?”

“Always. But I remain furious with you.” His hand drew her upright. She sought truth in his expression, to no avail. Her father seldom showed his feelings unless he wished to. “Drannic thinks I should indulge you. Devren believes I should send you home.”

“And how would you do that?” asked Melanna sourly. “I surely cannot be trusted among your soldiers . . .”

“. . . and you can be trusted around the lunassera even less, I know.” He stared out across the valley. “Why do they follow you?”

“Because I am Ashanal.” It didn’t matter how much she used it, still the title felt unearned.

“And is the daughter of the goddess still the daughter of her father?” His tone hardened. “Or do you seek to supplant me? The lure of a crown burns brighter than the strongest love.”

“Not brighter than mine,” she said, willing him to believe. “I have never wanted anything more than to be your heir, as a son would be your heir. That is the goddess’s wish also.”

That, at least, was the truth. Or had been.

He nodded slowly. “Then I can protect you no longer. But I will not humiliate you, as you have me. If it is your wish to fight, then so be it. Tradition has no sway over the Divine, nor those they choose as kin. I will remind my warchiefs.”

Melanna shuddered with relief. Her shoulders straightened as her father’s words lifted the burdens on her soul. She stepped forward to accept the coming embrace. “Thank you.”

The embrace never came. Instead, her father hauled himself back into the saddle. “Thank me by surviving. I’d rather the embarrassment of a daughter who thinks herself a son, than the sorrow of her death.”

He rode away, leaving Melanna with his acceptance renewed, but robbed of something harder to define.

“This isn’t what we agreed,” said Crovan.