up, the cadet Hallie Talbot loomed over her, extending a mug of hot tea.
“Call me Morley,” Raisa said automatically, accepting the tea and sipping the hot liquid. She shouldn’t allow Hallie to wait on her, but it took more strength than she possessed to say no.
Rebecca Morley was her alias, meant to hide her from those hunting the runaway princess heir of the Fells. The other Gray Wolves believed she was a daughter of the minor nobility whose parents had bribed her way into the military academy at Oden’s Ford. Nobody knew who she really was but her friend Amon Byrne.
Early on, Raisa had asked Hallie to cut her hair, to alter her looks. The cadet had obliged using her belt knife. Hallie’s skills as a barber were dubious. The result was a ragged cap that reached to Raisa’s earlobe on one side and her chin on the other.
Raisa’s hair had always been a point of vanity for her— long and thick, a wavy mass falling nearly to her waist. It was her best physical feature. She closed her eyes and extended her neck, remembering how Magret used to brush it with a boar- bristle hairbrush. . . .
“You’d be warmer and dryer in your tent, my—Morley,” Hallie said, breaking in on her thoughts once again. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
Raisa bit back a sharp retort. In camp, it seemed they were constantly on top of one another. Everything was difficult— from starting a fire to using the privy. Boredom and the constant close contact made them all snappish.
Well, it made Raisa snappish, at least. The others took it in stride.
“If I spend any more time staring at four canvas walls, I’ll go mad,” Raisa grumbled.
At first she’d shared a tent with Amon, Mick Bricker, and Talia Abbott. It was three per tent, with Raisa making the fourth since she was extra. That was fair in a triple of nine plus one. It had been cramped but cozy.
Then she’d awakened in the middle of the night to find herself snuggled up against Amon, one arm flung across his chest, nose buried in his wool undershirt. As children, they’d slept that way a hundred times.
This time it was different. Raisa crashed into consciousness, suddenly aware of his familiar scent, the thump of his heart under her arm, his rigid body. Amon lay on his back, still as stone, as though she were a viper who might strike if he twitched. He was jammed against the wall of the tent, eyes wide open, hands fisted, sweat beading on his forehead. He took quick, shallow breaths like he was in pain.
When he saw she was awake, he disentangled himself and stalked out of the tent.
After that, he’d swapped Mick with Hallie and moved into one of the other tents, leaving the three female guards together.
It wasn’t like she’d rolled onto him on purpose. It wasn’t like she’d attacked him.
He was inconsistent. Half the time he insisted she act like any soldier, the other half he was making special rules that applied only to her. She never went on patrol, and she never stood watch alone. He told the others it was because she was a first- year cadet and the others more experienced. He’d turned into the worst kind of bully.
They had plenty of food, but it was nasty stuff— hard biscuits and dried meat of undetermined origin, cheese going moldy in the damp. The nuts and dried fruit weren’t bad, but there was only so much of that Raisa could stomach. At the middays, if she didn’t finish her portion, Amon would nag her until she did.
“You’re losing weight, Morley. Up here, you need insulation. Once we start moving, you’ll need to keep up. I don’t want you fainting away from hunger. No one’s going to carry you, skin and bones or not.” And so on.
So what if she lost weight? Anyone would, under the circumstances.
They drilled every morning. Walked for miles in a large circle around the camp, in all kinds of weather. Every day, Amon assigned someone to match swords with Raisa, to work on her stance, her stamina, her form. Everyone took a turn but Amon Byrne. He probably knew what a mismatch that would be.
Still, the bouts were always humiliating. And exhausting. Everyone in the Wolfpack had a longer reach than she did. They could stand back in total safety and clip her at their leisure, smack her with the flat of their blades while she was kept constantly moving. It was like having eight big brothers and sisters to pick on her.
“If you’re going to be a cadet,” Amon would say, “you’ll be competing with people who’ve been fencing since they could hold a stick.” People such as Amon, who’d always known he would be a soldier like his father.
Maybe he wanted to work her hard enough to wear her down, to make her give up the idea of hiding among the warrior cadets at Wien House. His idea was that she’d stay in the temple close, cloistered with the dedicates, gardening and reading and studying healing and doing needlework with the speakers.
There, she’d be less likely to be recognized by students from home. Few Fellsians attended the Temple School at Oden’s Ford. There were fine ones closer to home.
Raisa knew mingling with the other students was risky, but she’d accept the risk. She’d spent enough time in a cloister. She wanted to learn about the real world.
Raisa set her mug down on a rock, wrapped her arms around her trousered legs, and rested her chin on her knees. Sweet Hanalea in chains, she was tired of this.
Hallie was on watch in camp. Talia Abbott was on patrol, looking for trouble over a three- mile radius. Everyone else huddled in the other two tents. Except for Amon, who was missing, as usual.
Amon used the name Morley like a stick to keep her at bay. To bury the memory of the childhood they’d spent together, finishing each other’s sentences, using their assets and talents to support and defend each other.
That younger Amon had taught her to hold her own in the physical, rough-and-tumble world outside of court. He’d taught her the skills her mother had neglected— riding bareback, long-bow archery, and a dangerous form of soccer played from horseback. He’d taught her tavern games— nicks and bones, darts, battle cards, and dicing.
Amon had been the conduit through which the skills he learned from his father and older cousins and on the streets of Fellsmarch were passed to Raisa. They’d sparred with wooden training swords. He showed her how to throw a knife and hone a real blade. When Raisa was twelve, he’d taught her how to disable an opponent in a street fight as soon as he learned it himself.
Raisa had her own talents to contribute to their childhood enterprises. People naturally deferred to her lineage, granting her an authority she didn’t necessarily have. With Raisa to front them, they could get away with anything.
Of course we’re allowed to ride out alone, she’d tell the stableman with breezy confidence. Saddle up Devilspawn and Thunderheart. Yes, those two. Yes, the queen approves. Do you really want to bother her?
Of course Amon is invited to the party/ allowed to help himself in the pantry/ allowed to choose weapons from the royal armory/can ride any horse he wants.
They were lucky they’d survived to their naming. But they’d had fun.
Then Amon had turned thirteen, the age when warrior cadets were named and sent to Wien House, the military academy at Oden’s Ford. Raisa had gone to Demonai Camp, to be fostered with her father’s family. They’d been apart more than three years.
Amon had returned to Fellsmarch at seventeen, tall, lean, and handsome, an intriguing combination of worldly soldier and familiar friend. Now Raisa wanted him to teach her different things, or to learn them along with her, but he was being unco-operative. A few tantalizing kisses— that was all they’d had. At first he’d seemed interested, but now . . .
There was no chance of a marriage between them. Her mother had made it clear that she disapproved of a dalliance with an officer of the Guard. Was that why Raisa was so fixed on him? Or was it because she was used to getting what she wanted?
That couldn’t be it. The threat of a forced marriage to a wizard