and as he did so, Niya finally got a good look at his eyes: deep and dark, without warmth, the eyes of a wounded animal. As he moved to stand before Elyssa, Niya tensed, her fingertips resting lightly on the handle of the dagger in her pocket.
“Your Highness,” Mace said, without inflection. At Elyssa’s nod, he knelt before her, though he was clearly uncomfortable in doing so. No courtier, this one. Elyssa smiled, but again Niya was struck by how ill she looked, her skin pale and clammy, her eyes circled dark. She wondered whether the Princess had caught something, whether she should drop a word to the medics, have them look Elyssa over. But Elyssa’s smile, though tired, was genuine enough.
“Are you true, Mace Wyler?” she asked the kneeling man.
“I am, Your Highness.”
“And do you swear to guard me against all danger, though it may cost you your own life?”
“I do, Your Highness.”
“Then kneel no longer. Welcome to my Guard.”
Elyssa extended a hand, and Niya, who had seen this ceremony four times already since coming to the Keep, found herself inexplicably moved by the bewilderment on Mace’s face. He eyed Elyssa’s hand as one would a new and possibly dangerous creature. After a long moment, he allowed Elyssa to pull him to his feet, and the rest of the Guard gave a cheer . . . even Elston, whose neck had already broken out in deep purple bruising.
“Come, boy,” Barty said. “Carroll will get you to the armorer. Highness? Your orders?”
“Where is my mother today?” Elyssa asked.
“Downstairs, Highness. In the private throne room.”
“We’ll go down there.”
Elyssa preceded them all to the door, Niya following a step behind. She kept her eyes on Elyssa’s back, but she was acutely conscious of the tall man behind her. He had the size and strength for farming, certainly, but the muscles were all wrong, concentrated not in his arms and hands but in his shoulders and chest. And although his hands were covered with scars, as most tenants’ were by the time they reached adulthood, the scars were wrong too, stretched and distended. Farmers took their wounds from harrows and scythes, tools only wielded in early adolescence or later. Mace’s scars had been inflicted in childhood.
Not a farmer, Niya thought. But what?
They emerged into the great chamber to an unpleasant sight: the white witch, Brenna, dealing her damnable tarot cards at the dining table. The entire Guard gave a collective shiver of dislike, and the puzzle that had briefly left Niya’s mind now returned with a vengeance. What was the witch doing here?
Elyssa passed the seer without a glance, but the new man, Mace, came to an abrupt halt just past the threshold, breath hissing inward as he saw her. At the sound, Brenna looked up, her mouth stretching in a ghastly smile . . . but the smile went jagged as she saw Mace. She shot up from the table, snarling, and the tarot deck convulsed in her fingers, spraying cards all over the table and floor.
“The Seven of Swords,” she snarled, never taking her eyes from Mace. “The reaper of death. But I have never seen—”
“Don’t let her bother you, lad,” Barty broke in, and the forced jocularity in his tone made Niya wince. “I know she looks like the ass end of hell, but she’s just one of the Queen’s frauds.”
“I see,” Mace replied, his eyes never leaving the witch. Niya sensed something curious passing between the two of them . . . recognition? Memory? The guards feared Brenna—were right to fear her, Niya thought—but Mace didn’t. The witch clearly knew it and wanted no part of him, for she gathered her tarot cards into an untidy stack and hurried down the hallway, muttering to herself.
“Well, Brenna doesn’t like you,” Dyer remarked, clapping Mace on the shoulder. “That’s good enough for me.”
The Guard chuckled, but Niya saw Mace withdraw, almost flinching away from Dyer’s hand on his shoulder. Dyer must have sensed it as well, for he left off, his friendly face puzzled. Niya checked her watch again and found that it was nearly five.
“Highness,” she whispered to Elyssa, as though in sudden distress. “I feel unwell. May I return to my room?”
“Of course!” Elyssa said, looking concerned. Well she might be; Niya was never ill. “Do you need a medic, or—”
“No; just to lie down. A brief nap, and I’m sure I’ll feel fine. I will begin work on the matter of your mother’s dress.”