Imogen wakened to a splitting headache and the rhythmic creak of wheels. She cracked open one eye, squinting as the light worsened the throbbing in her skull. As she grew more alert, she discovered her hands wrapped and bound, every part of her skin once bared now covered. She sat up slowly, startled when a man in dented armor struck the side of the wagon and ordered her to be still.

Oh gods, the invaders. Horses and injured men surrounded the rickety wagon in which she rode. A river roared beneath them, and the statues of the ancient Tineroth kings loomed above her as the procession marched across the bridge and away from the city.

She pushed herself up, ignoring the same soldier’s harsh reprimands, gaze sweeping the crowd in search of Cededa. If the gods answered prayers, he remained safe in the city.

Her prayers went unanswered. She glimpsed flashes of pale hair splashed with red in the group following her wagon.

Imogen tottered to her feet and jumped from the wagon. The men walking behind it leapt out of her way as she rolled on the hard stone. Gasping from the shock of hitting unforgiving ground, she stood, swaying unsteadily. “Cededa!” Her cry echoed over the wind whistling across the bridge and the river thundering below it.

Stripped to just his trews, the Undying King had been reduced to a stumbling wreck of bruises and welts. Purple and black patterns of fists and boot heels mottled his torso, and his hair stuck to a battered and bloodied face. He lurched behind a horse, tethered to the saddle by a length of rope that cinched his wrists so tightly blood trickled under the knots. The rider yanked on the rope, sending Cededa to his knees where he was dragged across the rough stone until he gained his feet once more.

“Stop it!” Imogen wove an unsteady path toward her lover. “Let him stand!”

She never reached him. A firm hand on her elbow whirled her about so that she faced the man who’d struck her senseless. He bowed briefly, eyes icy with both curiosity and disdain.

“He’s of no concern to you any more, Your Highness. Please return to the wagon.”

Imogen stared at the stranger, angered and astonished. What was he talking about? This man had hit her hard enough to rearrange her eyes and now he addressed her as if she were royalty. While his expression held only contempt, his voice was one of deference and civility. Had the world gone mad?

“Get your hands off me,” she snarled and yanked her arm out of his grip. The soldiers who’d jumped out of her way earlier closed ranks again, blocking her view of Cededa.