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sprawling on the smooth stone floor, then towered over me, every bit as fearsome as Caleb in his battle gear.
    Denton Grey, Mother's head cook. He loomed large and jabbed a huge wooden spoon down at me as though it were a javelin. "The little lord," he boomed, entirely unafraid of my title. "I have told you how often that this is not a toy?"
    I didn't wait for his reprimand. I went two paces on my heels and elbows, scraping backward, then threw myself to my feet and into a sprint. The kitchens opened on the great hall. Jen would already be coming down the stairs, but I was too close now. She couldn't stop me. The cook's fury chased me all the way across the bright room, but I fixed my eyes on the wide double doors and felt the thrill of victory.
    I could hear the noise in the great hall, too. It was the quiet, distant thunder of a thousand voices cast in quiet conversation. It was the rattle-clatter of platters changing hands, of silverware on pewter plates. It was the sound of a storyteller on the high dais, spinning out a tale like the ones I remembered from my childhood. It was a festival.
    I crossed the last ten paces at a full sprint, a smile wide on my face. I burst through the door and into the bright, noisy, happy chaos of a crowded feast in the tower's great hall. All the fires were burning, and the ornate tapestries danced on manufactured breezes. The great hall filled the whole of the first floor, one vast corridor stretching into the far distance, and at its heart stood the huge, wide spiral of the central stairs, rising up past the glittering armory toward the astonishing collection of the library.
    And there was Caleb, coming down at a sprint, eyes flashing murder and shoulders heaving with his exertion. Jen was still a floor above him, with Toman right behind her. I grinned up at them, then turned my attention to the dais on my right where Mother sat in her customary place. And the king sat at her side. In my father's seat.
    Both of them were staring at me. The king wore a confused smile. My mother wore sheer outrage. "Haven's name, Taryn," she hissed, "you're dripping with blood!"

3. A Royal Invitation
     
    I looked down and felt all the thrill of victory drip out through my toes. My fine clothes were ruined. I'd torn a sleeve when I caught myself on the magic window, and scuffed my boots crossing the store room. I'd pulled my shirt loose from the belt while I ran from Caleb, and soaked the other sleeve and both legs of my fine breeches in the blood of slaughtered cows when I'd jumped into the dumbwaiter.
    There might've been a little bit of my own blood in there, too, from scrapes and scratches along the way, but the worst of it was from the butcher's block. I'd beaten Caleb and my knights down to the hall, I'd made my appearance before the king...and I did it looking like some filthy peasant running from the Guard.
    I realized I was still panting, too, sides heaving as I tried to catch my breath. I shook the hair out of my eyes and met the gaze of the king. He was smiling, his laughter barely contained. I felt heat flood my cheeks and the bitter taste of humiliation on the back of my tongue.
    But now I was here. Mother would have me in chains after this, so I would not get another chance. No matter how I'd spoiled my arrival, I had to make the best of it. I straightened my spine, pulled back my shoulders, and met the king's eyes levelly.
    I stepped up onto the dais, ignoring Mother's furious frown. She gestured, too, shooing me away, but I'd already come. There was little more I could do to trouble her. I put her from my mind, and fixed all my attention on the king.
    I nodded to him for the sake of form. "Lord Timmon," I said in a serious voice. "I apologize for my state. It has been a...hectic afternoon." I gave a wry twist to my mouth at that, inviting him in on the joke, and the king responded with a laugh.
    No one else did. Mother looked pale. I blinked that away and turned my full attention back to him.