length that was just as visible and unmistakable. Recently he must have trimmed it again, for the ends only touched his broad shoulders—and he still carelessly tied back the strands that might fall into his eyes. Nothing of his face did he hide. Never did he hide it.
For even without that white hair, Aerax’s features declared who he was. The statue of Varrin in the palace courtyard might have been Aerax, too—or his father, or his uncle, or any of Varrin’s descendants. All possessed the same wide brow and sharp cheekbones, the same square jaw and full mouth, and looked out onto the world with a heavy-lidded stare. Nothing of Aerax’s mother could Lizzan see in him, except for sometimes in a quick grin or wry response.
But although there was no mistaking who his father was, no one would have mistaken Aerax for one of the royals. Not before the red fever, when his underlinens had been rags too threadbare to be of further use at his mother’s inn, and his winter clothing was made of furs that he’d pieced together by hand. Feral, they’d called him then—and so he nearly was. Almost always outside, and rarely in the company of other humans.
Until Lizzan. And he was dressed now much as he’d been when they’d met. In full summer, Aerax had emerged from the forest after a hunt with a boar’s carcass slung over his shoulders, blood and dirt painting his skin, and wearing only a deerskin tied around his hips.
Now he wore an underlinen tied in the same fashion, leaving most of his legs and torso bare. But life at the palace had changed what wasn’t covered. It had been ten summers since Lizzan had seen him without a tunic, and he’d always been tall, but he’d also run lean compared to the other royals. Now every muscle seemed heavier, his chest broader, his arms thicker . . . as his father’s had been, and as his uncle’s were. But she supposed that was what happened when a man did not have to forage or hunt his every meal, and could instead sit down to a palace feast.
Not all was different, though. His every movement was as fluid as it had always been—another lethal predator emerging from the jungle.
And there was nowhere for Lizzan to run.
The roar of the river covered the sound of his approach. She thought the horses might startle at his sudden appearance, but the bandits’ mounts were apparently accustomed to crossing the river, and to violence and blood. They’d only been uneasy when Caeb had come near them. Now they were settled again and did not stir, even when the heavy thud of feet against the deck sounded.
She would not look back. Resolutely she stood at the rail, staring at the riverbank ahead, her grip tight on the rudder. They were not yet halfway across. So she was trapped here with him.
This was supposed to have ended.
Despite the noise of his landing, she didn’t hear his approach. Could only feel it. So she was not startled by his nearness when his voice rumbled quietly so near her ear.
“Lizzan.”
She closed her eyes. So badly she wanted to turn toward him. To see him. “You’re not supposed to say my name.”
“You said mine when no one else would. Never will I not say yours.”
Warmth filled that quiet statement. Everything foolish within her responded to it, like morning dew steaming toward the sun. Oh, but so much of her inside was foolish.
“Then what do you wish of me, Your Highness?” She would not say his name now. “Does your seeking me out mean your duty to Koth is done?”
Oh, she had meant that to slice. To wound. But it was a blade that turned back on herself. She knew Aerax wasn’t here for her. Yet she wanted so badly for him to say that he was.
“It is not.” His voice roughened to a painful rasp, as if her words had wounded him, too. “I needed to see that you are well.”
A bitter laugh ripped from her. “I am, Your Highness. Perfectly well. As you could see if I weren’t covered in blood that is not mine.”
“I am glad of it, Lizzan.” That rasp of pain was still there.
No more should she speak to him. Yet she needed to know—“Have you seen my family? Are they well?”
“I see your brother Cernak often. He is my keeper.”
Astonishment had her turning. A keeper was a member of the palace guard who