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just to lessen her unease. She had insisted that if she was going to go as Miach’s servant, she should at least have first choice of all available gear lest she be called upon to protect him by more pedestrian means than a spell—and given the contents of Droch’s missive to him, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t find that to be necessary.

    Her grandfather had drawn himself up and told her with a bit of a huff that he wasn’t in the habit of stuffing blades up his sleeves, so he had nothing to offer her save a bit of advice on what might be considered appropriate accoutrements for elven princesses. She had a difficult time thinking of herself as such, so she had ignored his list and turned to her uncle. Sosar had justified his lack of steel by pleading an overwhelming desire to leave his flesh unnicked. Having seen him with a sword in his hands, she couldn’t help but agree that was wise.

    Turah, however, had surprised her with the number and quality of blades he’d pulled forth. She’d expressed her approval, then poached a pair of the best.

    She’d then turned to see what Miach had to offer only to watch him hold out a pair of lovely, slim daggers, seemingly freshly forged, with hilts of bright gold.

    “Did you buy these?” she’d asked in surprise.

    He’d shaken his head with a small smile. “I made them for you, just now.”

    She had drawn each forth and blinked at the sight of what she’d already learned to recognize as runes of Tòrr Dòrainn and Neroche intertwined there. She was one to get a bit misty over the sight of a goodly blade, so she’d eyed the finely wrought steel with unabashed emotion, then embraced him and called him by a particularly heartfelt term of endearment.

    Her fond feelings for him had departed abruptly when he’d informed her that in addition to her being his servant, he thought she should be a mute one—which had led her to suspect he’d had much more of a hand in choosing her disguise than he’d admitted. He’d promised he wouldn’t enjoy her silence. She’d promised him he would wish she were mute in truth when she had the chance to meet him in the lists and sharpen her tongue on him whilst she was about the happy labor of humiliating him with the sword. And damn him if he hadn’t looked particularly intimidated by either threat.

    It was impossible not to admire him a bit for that.

    Of course, that had been whilst they’d been safely in front of their fire in the inn. Now they were walking up to a place she most certainly didn’t want to visit again and she was having a hard time admiring much besides the way that led back down the hill.

    She looked for a distraction. There were those aplenty, fortunately, and four of the most dazzling ones were walking in front of her.

    Her grandfather had given up all pretense of being less than he was. Even if his terrible beauty and his kingly demeanor hadn’t announced who he was, his clothing would have. His trousers were dark velvet, his tunic heavily embroidered and encrusted with gems. Over it all, he wore a cloak of ermine, trimmed in some other sort of fur that sparkled and shimmered in a way that demanded attention. He’d forgone the crown, but Morgan supposed that had been an oversight.

    Sosar was dressed just as elegantly, in white trousers and a golden tunic, with a cloak that was slightly less showy than his father’s, but no less luxurious. The sun shone down on his fair hair, turning it into pale, spun gold. She watched mere mortals stop to gape at him as he passed and understood why. He was nothing short of stunning.

    Even Turah had been garbed in princely attire and wore a circlet of silver on his head. Perhaps the men he passed didn’t stare at him, but the women certainly did. Morgan caught sight of a handful of winks he threw to an equal number of handsome wenches and had to smile. He might have looked like Miach, but they were completely unalike in temperament—which was probably fortunate