A Fistful of Fire: Chronicles of Marsdenfel #1

Year 242 of the Bynding

The golden circlet on the man’s brow reveals that he isn’t merely nobility, but he’s a king. The highborn boy is then a prince, undoubtedly intrigued by the novelty of finding a waif in the middle of nowhere.

Highborn folk don’t dirty their hands with waifs. I let my eyes close again. The numbness is climbing up my legs and will take me, soon enough. Maybe that’ll fulfill the prophecy, somehow: me freezing to death, although Father’s a fire mage who could save me.

Some of the people here murmur, and one voice sounds female. Something brushes my arm. I flinch, triggering another coughing fit, but I don’t open my eyes.

“Kitra, the poor girl’s frozen through,” says the king. “Do you have something to wrap her in?”

I hear someone fumble with saddlebags. “Mayhaps a shawl or chemise.” Definitely a woman’s voice.

Someone else touches me. I recoil away, shuddering and coughing and whimpering with the pain spearing me with every gasp. Tears burn my eyes, forcing me to open them.

“Shh,” the woman, Kitra, soothes. She smiles, her white teeth a harsh contrast to her dark golden skin. Her attire announces her foreign origins as much as her deep tan does. The short sheaths on her thighs look well worn with use. I stare at them. A woman fighter? Joining a king on a hunt?

Her black hair, hacked at her chin, could suit either male or female, and her tall slim body could pass for a man’s if she tried. But she’s indisputably female, as revealed by her current bland ensemble of a leather jerkin—no undershirt—and belted trousers, livened by her bracelet and necklace, a matching set made from something’s teeth or claws.

Kitra offers me the chemise she evidently forgot to wear under her jerkin so the lacings wouldn’t reveal her navel and the crease between her breasts. “Here, kitten. Wrap yourself up.”

I shake my head and scoot back. I’m not stupid. I’m not giving them fodder to call me a thief.

His Majesty eyes me thoughtfully as he remounts his own dappled mare. He moves over beside another hunter, one whose worn green tunic is a coarser weave, though silver embroidery cuffs it. It’s unusual, but interesting: a demonstration of wealth added the sturdy garb of someone who actually works for his living.

Silver Embroidery studies me with enough interest that he must be a good friend of the king, so His Majesty doesn’t mind him having opinions of his own. “Do you have a shawl, Your Highness?”

I recoil with the realization that this woman offering me her chemise is a princess, albeit a foreign one.

Princess Kitra frowns and steps over to her palomino mare. She checks her saddlebag. “Scarf…?” And evidently scarf means something else where she’s from, because what she holds up looks more like a courtesan’s veil.

Prince Aidan takes it from her and grabs my shoulder to yank me forward and deposit the ‘scarf’ around me before I can dodge him. I cough hard, but he holds me up and doesn’t let me fall.

Fear makes sand of my muscles. He’s old enough to be picking women he wants to give the veil.

“Oh, my,” Silver Embroidery says quietly, expression pained. “Aldrik.” He gives a small nod my way. Ice crawls beneath my skin. His Majesty nods in return, acknowledgement that he noticed the gesture.

I’m swung in the air and set on a steed. Princess Kitra’s careful, though, and ensures that I stay where she puts me. Prince Aidan murmurs something about Hind being such a good gelding. I cling to the chestnut gelding’s white mane with my fingers, struggling not to fall off.