“Very kind. Why do you hate the Yew Land so much?” Before he could answer, another question came to mind. “Volusian, are you from the Yew Land?”

He took a long time in responding. I think, had he been able, he wouldn’t have answered. The binds that held him were too strong, however.

“Yes, mistress.”

He offered no more. I could’ve grilled him further but thought better of it. Volusian was an old, old spirit. Maybe he was from the Yew Land, but by his own admission, he hadn’t been there in recent times, nor did he know Varia. My guess was whatever animosity he held toward that kingdom predated her and was probably of little use to me. What intrigued me, though, was that I had my first real piece of background about Volusian. I’d always known he had done something terrible that had resulted in him being cursed to wander the worlds without peace. I now had a good idea of where his troubles may have started.

“Is there anything else, mistress?” he asked when I remained quiet.

“Huh?” I’d been lost in my own thoughts. “Oh, no. That’s it for now.”

Volusian nodded in acquiescence, then began to fade into darkness. For a moment, only his red eyes seemed to remain, but then they too disappeared in the shadows.

Chapter 4

Life soon returned to whatever passed as normal in my world. The many guests and visitors who’d arrived for the wedding dispersed to their own lands, and true to their word, Shaya and Rurik continued their duties just as before. There was little outward sign that much had changed with them, though occasionally I’d catch them secretly exchanging happy looks.

One guest who didn’t leave right away was Dorian. He kept saying he would. He’d even make comments that began with, “Well, when I leave tomorrow ...” But the next day he’d still be hanging around the Rowan Land. Almost a week went by before I finally brought the matter up.

I found him out in some of the woods beyond the castle. While this was still fairly secured land, I was nonetheless trailed by quiet, discreet guards who kept a distance that was respectful but still close enough to pounce, should the need arise. Dorian was engaged in a typically Dorian activity: hunting. Well, kind of. The forest clearing was littered with thin, wooden cutouts of various animals. They were life-size and painted in bright, gaudy colors. As I approached, I saw Dorian’s long-suffering servant, Muran, nervously holding up a cutout of a pink stag. On the opposite side of the clearing, Dorian focused on them with razor-sharp intensity and drew back a giant longbow. There was a twang as he released, and the arrow shot forward, implanting right near the edge of the target’s upper body, only a couple of inches from Muran’s hand.

“Isn’t that kind of dangerous?” I asked.

“Hardly,” said Dorian, notching another arrow. “Those animals aren’t real, Eugenie.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “The purple polka dots were kind of a giveaway. I was talking about Muran.”