Iome blushed at the jest. “I . . . no—the food is too good, milord. I fear I am a bit full. The cooks should be commended, rather than reprimanded.”

King Sylvarresta laughed, gave Gaborn a sly wink. Though Gaborn had not yet declared himself, the King’s wink had said, You two are alike. I would welcome the match.

But, in fact, from his few glimpses, Gaborn had decided that perhaps he was not worthy of Iome. Her serving girl’s eyes had shone with too much love for Iome, and when those around her spoke, they held a tone of mingled affection and respect that bordered on reverence. Though Iome was herself only a girl of sixteen at the time, those who knew her best did not merely love her: they treasured her.

When Gaborn had prepared to leave Heredon, his father had taken him to speak privately with King Sylvarresta.

“So,” King Sylvarresta had said. “You’ve come to visit my realm at last.”

“I’d have come before,” Gaborn said, “but my schooling prevented it.”

“You will come again next year,” King Sylvarresta said. “More openly, I hope.”

“Indeed, milord,” Gaborn answered. His heart had pounded as he added, ‘I look forward to it. There is a matter between us, milord, that we must discuss.”

Gaborn’s father had reached out and touched Gaborn’s elbow, warning him to be silent, but Sylvarresta merely laughed, his gray eyes wise and knowing. “Next year.”

“But it is an important matter,” Gaborn urged.

With a look of warning, King Sylvarresta said, “You are overeager, young man. You come seeking my greatest treasure. Perhaps it shall be yours. But I will not command my daughter in this matter. You must win her. Next year.”

The winter had seemed long and cold, gray and lonely.

It felt odd now for Gaborn to be coming north, seeking to win the love of a woman he’d never spoken to.

As he reflected, the twang of a bowstring roused him, followed by a brilliant burning in the flesh of his right arm as an arrow scraped his skin.

Gaborn gouged his heels into the flanks of his mount. It leapt forward so swiftly that Gaborn fell back and barely was able to cling on as the horse raced under the trees.

The world went dark. Gaborn’s mind blanked from pain. He couldn’t imagine where the bowshot had come from. He’d smelled no one, heard no warning.

Almost immediately he passed a thick knot of trees. A darkly cowled rider there was tossing down his horse bow, drawing a curved scimitar from the sheath at his back. As Gaborn passed, he saw only the frantic, killing gleam in the man’s eye, the taper of his grizzled goatee.