Tristan was a doer, not a planner. He knew thirty-two ways to behead a demon, but not the first thing about plotting abduction.

That’s what this was—abduction.

For the past six years, Tristan had followed the High Commander’s every order without question. He’d never had any reason to doubt the man who had pulled him from the ashes. The High Commander had given him a purpose again when he’d thought life wasn’t worth living. Tristan owed the leader of the Paladins everything.

It wasn’t far from Luca that the High Commander found him, nearly eleven years ago. Tristan had been walking aimlessly for days, maybe weeks – he’d lost track of time. He was cold and alone and so hungry that he’d taken to gnawing on meatless bones just to give his mouth something to do.

Tristan had hidden behind a boulder when he heard the pounding of hoofbeats and baying of hounds. He hadn’t seen another human being since he left Finchold – how was he to know whether the sounds belonged to man or demon? He’d closed his eyes and waited for teeth or claws or talons to tear his body to shreds. His soul already lay in tatters.

And then that voice – that impossibly beautiful voice – had called out to him. “You can’t give up on life just yet, boy, not when the dead still need avenging.”

The High Commander was an intensely private man, revealing only bits and pieces of his plans at a time. There were few, if any, who could call themselves his confidante. But his vision was a worthy one – that of a world free from the tyranny of demons. And after demons had torn Tristan’s own world apart, he devoted himself to making the High Commander’s vision a reality. Killing the monsters that had destroyed his family was all Tristan wanted. He left human infighting to the aristocrats and politicians.

Tristan swore many oaths on the day he was anointed as a full Paladin, and among them he swore to obey the High Commander in all things. And so he would obey this order, even if it left him unsettled.

He just needed to figure out how to do it.

“So what’s the plan?” Sam asked, elbows on the small table.

“Accept Sander’s dinner invitation,” Tristan replied promptly. He could do this planning thing.

“Okay,” said Sam. “And then what?”

“We go to the dinner,” Tristan declared.

Sam’s eyebrows pinched together. “And then?”

“We capture Sander.”

Sam was speechless for a full thirty seconds. “How?”

Tristan opened his mouth and drew in air through his nose. “I’m still working out the details.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “In other words, you have no clue.”

Tristan glowered at him. So what if Sam was right? The boy should know better than to make light of his superior’s shortcomings. Although Tristan really did need to come up with something, and fast.

“I have an idea,” said Braeden slowly. “It’s a little bit unconventional, but I think it could work.”

“We’re trying to kidnap a man out of his own stronghold. I think unconventional is called for,” Tristan said.

“I’m still working out the details,” Braeden said wryly, looking at Tristan sidelong. “But what we need to do is draw Sander out, isolate him from his men. There are only three of us, and the gods know how many of them. And if they all fight like Adelard and Donnelly…” Braeden trailed off.

Tristan nodded impatiently. “Understood. Isolate Sander.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Sam asked.

Braeden scratched at his bandaged shoulder. “Assuming dinner will be held at the Uriel base, we’ll need to lure him away, under the pretense of something benign, to a place where we can make a quick exit. Here’s where the unconventional part comes in.” He looked directly at Sam. “One of us would need to dress as a girl.”

Sam made a choking noise and started to cough uncontrollably. Tristan pounded him on the back. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sam gasped, though his skin had gone white.

Braeden gave his fellow trainee a measuring look. “It’ll have to be Sam. My features are too distinct to pull off a disguise.”

Sam’s hands, which were laid on the table, curled into fists. “I won’t do it.”

“You will if Braeden’s plan makes sense,” Tristan said.

Braeden told them the rest of his plan, and Tristan agreed it was sound. Sam, however, was less than enthusiastic. “Do I really have to do this?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“I’m sorry,” Braeden said, looking down. “I don’t see any other way.”

Tristan didn’t understand why Sam was so adamantly against donning a female disguise. Yes, it was embarrassing, but what were a few hours of mortification in the grand scheme of things? “Let’s do it,” he said resolutely. “I’ll arrange for dinner with Sander tomorrow night. That gives us a day-and-a-half to prepare.” He dug out a few gold coins and slid them in front of Sam. “Buy yourself some feminine things.”

“I’ll help,” Braeden said quickly. Sam pinned him with a glare that could cut through diamond.

Tristan looked back and forth between the two of them, sensing he was missing something important. “I’ll leave you two to it.” He walked towards the door and turned the knob. “I’ve got a dinner to arrange. I’ll meet you back here at nightfall.”

****

As soon as Tristan walked out of the room, Sam exploded, leaping up from her seat. “I could kill you! Your brilliant plan just ended any chance I had of ever becoming a Paladin. Do you hate me that much?” Tears sprang to her eyes, and she scrubbed at her wet cheeks furiously. Gods damn it, this was twice in one week that she had succumbed to her stupid female emotions.

“I don’t hate you, Sam.” A stricken expression flashed across Braeden’s face. “Gods, don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” she said, ignoring the tears that called her a liar. “And if I were crying, it certainly wouldn’t be because I thought you hated me.” Liar.

“Fine,” Braeden said neutrally. “You’ve spontaneously produced water on your cheeks.” The back of his hand hovered near her cheek and then dropped. He turned away from her. “We swore to serve the Paladins to the best of our abilities. Can you think of a better plan?”

“Your plan isn’t going to work! I can’t disguise myself as a girl when I actually am one!”

“That’s exactly why it will work. Do you think Sander Branimir would be fooled by a man in a pretty dress?”

Sam shoved at Braeden’s chest. “What about Tristan? You think he’s going to see your idiotic plan through when his dead fiancée reappears?”

“Lady Samantha is not making an appearance, Sam. I’d never ask that of you.”

Sam laughed bitterly. “Shall I get my face beat in again so he doesn’t recognize me?”

Braeden expelled an exasperated huff. “People see what they expect to see. We’ll create a disguise that fools Tristan, too, without resorting to bruises and contusions. As long as the girl you pretend to be tomorrow isn’t Lady Samantha, he’ll never suspect otherwise.”

“You’re willing to risk my future on that assumption?” Sam asked.

“You’re willing to risk the future of the Paladins on the assumption that I’m wrong?” Braeden returned. “You and I read the same letter—you know what’s at stake. Think beyond yourself.”

His last words stung, even as they rang with truth. “I have no choice in this, do I? I just hope you’re right.”

“I will be,” said Braeden. “For what it’s worth, I think you should tell Tristan the truth. Not tomorrow, but someday. He might be more understanding than you think.”

“He’ll hate me.”

“He might be angry with you for lying, like I was, but he won’t hate you. You’re a hard person to hate.”

“It’s too risky.” Sam bit her lip. “You really don’t hate me?”

“Never,” Braeden said solemnly.

And just like that, some of the awkwardness between them dissipated. Sam let out a quivering breath. “Okay. Let’s go buy my disguise.”



Wearing women’s clothes again felt like slipping into a stranger’s skin. The gown Sam bought with Tristan’s gold was modestly cut, made of coarse green wool that itched terribly. Lady Samantha had never worn any cloth less fine than linen—most of her dresses had been silk—but the girl Sam was pretending to be was not the daughter of a duke.

Her chest was blessedly unbound, and in fact she had added padding. The long-sleeved gown was tightly laced, accentuating her enhanced curves, but the high neckline didn’t hint at any cleavage. Cleavage couldn’t be faked, after all, if one were really a man.

With white-gloved hands, she adjusted her wig in the mirror. The black horsehair was braided and confined in a crespine of knitted mesh, a style long out of fashion in Haywood but still fairly common in the West. She’d painted her face white with blaunchet, heavily rouged her cheeks, and rubbed lemon juice into her lips until they burned bright red.

The girl staring back at her in the mirror didn’t look a thing like Lady Samantha.

She exited the privy and entered the inn room, where Tristan and Braeden awaited her. She nervously arranged her skirts. “How do I look?”

A stunned silence greeted her, and she feared the worst. Tristan spoke, his voice husky, “You make a very pretty girl.”

Sam blushed in spite of herself, not that it would show through her war paint. “I can’t decide whether I should be flattered or offended.” It was the expected thing to say, if Sam were truly a man dressed as a woman.

Tristan stared at her as if dazed. “You remind me of someone, but I can’t quite place who.”

Sam shifted her feet uneasily. “I’ve been told I favor my mother.” In truth, she’d inherited her features from her father. She prayed he didn’t press the issue.

“Right,” said Tristan. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked. “Are you ready for tonight?”

Thank the gods, he didn’t recognize her. Braeden answered, “Aye, we’re ready.”

Tristan adjusted the sword at his hip and fastened the brooch of his cloak. “Sam, I’ll see you in an hour, and Braeden, make sure the horses are saddled.” He turned to leave, his hand on the door.

She couldn’t shake a nagging doubt. “Tristan,” she called, and he spun around. “What happens if the plan doesn’t work?”

“The High Commander told us at whatever cost.” Tristan’s cobalt eyes raked her over from head to toe. “You best have a dagger hidden underneath those skirts.”

She had three.