Marcus knew his father had doubts, though Edward had said nothing to him. The king was taking an immense risk, believing in his son—a son who was having difficulty believing in himself. True, Edward had seen the mad monks. He’d seen illusion magic at work—Draconas had once knocked the king through what he’d perceived to be a stone wall. But that was a long way from believing in magic that could hide an entire city from sight for hundreds of years and field an army of warriors with the blood of dragons in their veins.

As Marcus rode at the head of his own force—the Prince’s Own, a troop of knights who had been rewarded for service to the crown by being given the honor of escorting the prince—he looked into a future that was bleak and gray as the day.

He did not know what to wish for. If he hoped for vindication, then it was likely that he and many of these men riding with him would die. If he wished it to be nothing more than a dream, his fattier had mustered his army at great expense for nothing, and news that the prince was mad would spread like wildfire. His parents would have to shut him up in a monastery to silence the outcry and keep him from further disgracing his family. Thinking of this, Marcus deemed a metal dart in the throat preferable.

He rode by himself, keeping his distance from his escorts, who—truth to tell—were not disposed to be on a friendly basis with the young man. The knights, led by Sir Troeven had vowed before God and their king that they would lay down their lives for their prince if need be. They hadn’t taken any oath to be his friend.

Edward was concerned about his son. Marcus knew that, for he saw his father casting worried glances in his direction. Marcus pretended he didn’t notice. He much preferred to keep himself to himself.

By afternoon, however, when Marcus had not said a word to anyone and had given away his food to a pack of delighted urchins and their dogs, Edward fell back from his position at the head of the army to join his son. Raising his voice to be heard over the drumming rain, he said, in companionable tones, “What did you think of the Lady Izabelle?”

Marcus blinked his eyes to clear them of rainwater and dragged his thoughts back from the gloomy prospect before him to wonder what he did think of the young woman who was going to be his wife. The truth was, he’d been so preoccupied and worried that he hadn’t given her much thought at all.

Perhaps his father guessed as much for he added, louder still, “By your silent preoccupation all day, my son, I take it you’ve been thinking of little else except her lovely face.”