Page 162 of Revealing Fate

FELÍNE SAT ATOP A HANDSOME sorrel gelding wearing buff-colored breeches, a hunter green blouse with billowing sleeves and embellished cuffs that contrasted beautifully against her horse’s bright bronzy coat, and a cream corset vest with pearl buttons. Her hair had been styled in a twisting half-updo, secured by a jeweled clasp shaped like an autumn tree shedding citrine and amber leaves into her wealth of dark waves. The clothes had been a gift from Kal; she hadn’t asked where he’d gotten them. Beulah’s eldest daughter, Pheryn, had crafted and given her the hair pin.

Felíne’s spine was straight, shoulders pulled back, and gloved hands gently resting her reins against red withers.

She looked every bit a princess of Ilistaar. So much so that no one would guess she was a writhing bundle of nervous energy, a pitiful excuse for a horsewoman, and felt like clawing her way out of her own skin. A concealed dagger had been sheathed along her leather-clad calf in case anything went wrong—Daybreak was deemed too ostentatious for her ensemble—and a sheen of sweat coated her palms and the back of her neck.

Something would go wrong. Felíne could feel it. Someone would get hurt. Or one of the archers would make a miscalculation. Or⁠—

“Take a breath, Kitty, love. You look about to faint.”

Felíne glanced over to where Adder sat astride his own mount—a bay mare with one blue eye and white socks. The two of them waited just inside the shaded tree line, still fully concealed from any onlookers outside the forest’s boundary.

“This is a mistake.”

Adder clucked his tongue. “Have a little faith, love. It’s a good plan.”

It was a good plan. Reliable Meressian scouts reported that King Domitan had arrived with a modest host, less than a quarter of his main army by their estimations. This told Kal that the king hadn’t come to make battle. He’d ventured beyond the safety of the capital’s city walls for one thing: Felíne.

Domitan’s envoy conveyed his king’s proposal of an even trade—one Cinah Creed, unharmed, in exchange for the Prima of Asteros, equally unmolested. No tricks. No exchange of blows. As Meress’s Battle Master, Kal had received the missive directly. Felíne was to ride out of Stillwater Wood into the open southwestern plain, meet her father and Cinah, and then the King of Asteros would release his captive, turn around in possession of his daughter, and peacefully return to the capital.

Felíne didn’t buy it. Sagely, neither did Kal.

Instead, when Felíne reached a designated spot several horse-lengths short of halfway, Kal’s best archer would fire a flaming bolt into a hidden cache of explosives, a preexisting component of Stillwater Wood’s border defenses, which had been routinely inspected for efficacy just a few nights prior. The bolt would ignite the plain in a fiery line, effectively cutting Domitan off from his men. Felíne would flee back into the safety of the wood—as her horse had been trained—Kal would take the king alive—per Felíne’s specific request—and Adder would ride out to aid Cinah. The Meressian militia would handle any Asterosian soldiers who managed to brave the flames in attempts to reach their king. By the time the blaze burned to a smolder, the Meressians would be safely ensconced once more within the depths of the forest, and the Asterosian army would be relieved of their ruler, left to scurry back to their last remaining monarch.

As Adder said, it was a good plan. So why was Felíne’s every instinct screaming at her to abandon this folly?

Kal emerged from between the trees, and her worried thoughts evaporated like desert mist, breath catching in her throat.

He was resplendent sitting astride his bronze-plated battle steed, a midnight warrior, black head to toe in defiance of the clear autumn morning. Kal wore a long-sleeved tunic tucked into riding leathers and oiled boots. A leather-armored vest protected his chest, flanks, and the tops of his thighs. His shoulders were covered by segmented plates that extended down over his muscled upper arms, allowing for full range of motion. A stiff collar guarded his otherwise vulnerable throat. He wore no helm. Battle Master Kaine wanted his enemy to know his face.

And what a face it was. Obsidian warpaint had been smeared in a thick band over the lower half of Kal’s forehead, eyes, and the bridge of his nose. His full lips were set in a grim line, unshaved jaw clenching. His hair had been freshly shorn, sides cut close to his skull in a burst around each ear. Intricately shaved designs adorned each temple and extended toward the longer curling strands that grew in a tangled line from his forehead to his nape.

Onyx eyes found Felíne and flared with stygian fire.

Sig snorted and tossed his proud head, setting the flame emblazoned over his forelock dancing. Kal pulled him up alongside Felíne’s gentler mount.

“Green.”

Felíne tilted her head. “I beg your pardon?”

Kal’s gaze raked over her. “When the world is finished going to hell and duty no longer demands our attention, I’m throwing a ball and gowning you in green. Verdigris, jade, veridian, sage. The shade doesn’t matter. Green is your color.”

Felíne felt her face flush.

Kal and Adder exchanged a nod of greeting, and then Kal’s attention returned to her. “You’re ready.”

It wasn’t a question. If he’d asked, she would have certainly said no. But stated as he did, the words steeled her with an improbable fraction of confidence.

Kal nodded. “It’s time.” He touched his heels to Sig’s sides, urging the stallion forward. Then he twisted in the saddle. “You look nothing like a princess of Asteros, Kitty. You look like a queen of Ilistaar.”

Felíne traced the terrible, beautiful lines of his face. Memorized them. “And you, Kalevar Kaine, look like a demon come to collect his due.”

Kal’s stony visage split with a devil’s grin. He let his gaze linger on her for another breath, then clucked to Sig and rode off into the forest.

“Give ‘em hell, mate,” Adder murmured.

They sat under the canopy of trees for another fifteen minutes or so, listening to the wind sigh through the boughs, rustling the leaves, and watching the strengthening morning light bathe the forest floor, coaxing tiny woodland creatures from their burrows. The soft warbling of a distant songbird had Adder cocking his head toward the sound.

Thundercloud eyes landed on her. “That’s your signal, love. Domitan’s in the field.”