So many men, so huge an army coming from the south. Iome still marveled that they’d heard no advance word. The Duke of Longmot should have sent warning. He should have known of the army’s movements. One could only hope that Raj Ahten had found a way to move without Longmot’s notice. If that were true, Longmot could send his knights to aid their king, once they discovered the siege. But Iome smelled treachery in the air, and feared that Longmot would send no aid.

Prince Orden cleared his throat, politely begging Iome’s attention. “This should have been a fairer meeting between us,” he said. His voice was gentle. “I’d hoped to bring joyful news to your kingdom, not tales of invasion.”

As if his proposal would have been joyful! She suspected that her wiser vassals would have mourned the match, even though they’d see the necessity of tying Heredon to Mystarria, the richest kingdom in Rofehavan.

“I thank you for your hasty ride,” Iome said. “It was good of you to risk it.”

Prince Orden stepped to her side and looked out over the edge of the tower. “How long, do you think, before they mount an attack?” He sounded detached, too tired to think. A curious boy fascinated by the prospect of battle.

“By dawn,” she said. “They won’t want anyone slipping from the castle, so they’ll strike soon.” Considering the renowned strength of Raj Ahten’s troops—the giants and mages and his legendary swordsmen—tomorrow, her father’s kingdom would likely fall.

Iome glanced at Gaborn’s back profile from the corner of her eye, a young man who would have broad shoulders when he got his full growth. He had long dark hair. He wore a clean blue traveling cloak, a narrow saber.

She averted her gaze, not desiring to see more. Broad-shouldered, like his father. Of course he will be stunning. After all, he draws glamour from his subjects.

Not like Iome. While some Runelords drew glamour heavily from their subjects, appropriating great resplendence to mask an imperfect countenance, Iome had been blessed with some natural beauty. When she was but a mere infant, two fair maids had stepped forward, offering to endow the princess with their own glamour, and her parents had accepted in Iome’s behalf. But once Iome was old enough to understand what the endowments cost her subjects, she had refused further gifts.

“I would not stand so close to the wall,” Iome said to Gaborn. “You don’t want to be seen.”

“By Raj Ahten?” Gaborn asked. “What would he see from here? A young man talking to a maid on the tower wall?”

“Raj Ahten has dozens of far-seers in his band. Surely they will know a princess when they see her—and a prince.”