It would have been easier for Sam to forget about her father if she were able to train as she normally did. She was under strict doctor’s orders not to touch any weapons—not just her new scimitar—until the end of the week. Still, Sam threw herself into what she could do: she used bell clappers and lifted stones to strengthen her upper body and arms. She rode her horse down the sloping hillsides to Luca’s westernmost gate and then climbed back up on foot. In the mornings, she ran, until short distances no longer winded her.

For the first few days, the Uriel men looked at Sam askance, but no one said anything to her or tried to prevent her from using the training grounds, though they kept their distance. She wished she were in top fighting form so she could really give them something to look at. She wanted to prove that she belonged out there with them. She would, eventually.

Tristan ran a few calisthenics drills with her and they dined together—the Uriel treated him as much like a leper as they did her—but Sam caught only flashes of Braeden: a flicker of silver hair or a blur of black robes, and then he was gone as if he’d never been. He was like a phantom, and every stolen glimpse of him was like rubbing salt in a wound. She missed him so much it hurt.

Sam didn’t see any of Sander that week, either, and found herself disappointed. When he had been their captive, Sander had teased her with the possibility of joining the Uriel as a woman, but perhaps that was all it was—a tease. Even if Sam had not been a woman, there was no place for her with the Paladins anymore. If the Uriel wouldn’t take her, there would be no place for Sam anywhere. Her father would restore her as his heir—it would save him the trouble of producing a new one—but the Sam of Haywood she’d become would shrivel up and die if she returned to her former life. She knew nothing of the Uriel, and yet they were the only hope she had.

Finally, the day came for Addie to remove her stitches, although in truth Sam was far more excited about reclaiming her scimitar. “Where is it?” she asked as soon as she spotted Addie in the infirmary.

Addie ushered her to the nearest empty bed. “How did I know that would be your first question? Not ‘will this hurt?’ or ‘how long will this take?’ like a normal person.”

Sam shrugged. “The pain can’t be worse than getting the wound in the first place. I just want my sword.”

“And you’ll get it,” said Addie. “But first, remove your tunic and lie back.”

Sam obliged and settled back onto the bed. Addie unwrapped her bandages and gently examined her wound with her fingertips. “Very nice,” she murmured. “You’ll have a nasty scar, but only your lover ever need see it.”

“Addie!”

The doctor laughed. “You’re a prude, Sam of Haywood,” she said. “And I’m only teasing you. Now, this will pinch.” She pulled out thin forceps and scissors from her work apron. Using the forceps to lift up the topmost suture, Addie cut off the black string just below the knot, and Sam felt a minor twinge as the doctor tugged the thread out through her skin.

Twenty stitches later, Addie said, “There. That’s the last one.” She cleaned the skin again and rewrapped Sam’s chest with bandages. “You’re to leave this on for five days and then carefully unwind it.”

“My sword?”

“So impatient,” said Addie, but she smiled as she said it. She slipped out through the opening in the curtain surrounding Sam’s bed and returned with the bronze plated scabbard and sword. “It’s yours, to keep this time.”

Sam reached for it, but Addie held it close to her body. “Ah, before you go running off to the training grounds, I’m supposed to pass along a message from my father.”

Sam’s ears perked up. “From Sander?”

“Aye, he asked if you would meet him for dinner after sunset tonight in the dome at the top of the Beyaz Kale.”

“I can do that,” Sam said slowly. “Why didn’t he ask for me himself?”

“I’ve scarcely seen him myself in three weeks,” said Addie. “I don’t know the nature of the emergency he’s contending with, but it’s taken up all of his time.”

“Will you be there tonight, Addie?”

She shook her head. “My father doesn’t involve me in Uriel affairs unless he needs my knowledge of medicine. You’re on your own.”

That, as it turned out, was a far cry from the truth.



After two hours in the training yard, Sam retired to her chambers to bathe and dress before meeting with Sander. With her scimitar back in its sheath, her nerves returned in full force. Addie could shed no light on what her father wanted to discuss, and Sam feared the worst.

She stared at the gowns in her closet for a long time before choosing her nicest pair of breeches and a high-necked velvet doublet. Sam did not accentuate her femininity, but she didn’t hide it, either. She wore her hair in a braid down her back instead of pulling it into the Paladin trainee’s topknot and she left her breasts unbound. In her snug-fitting doublet, Sam would never be mistaken for a man. She would come to Sander honestly. Whatever she did next, she would do it as herself.

In a last-minute decision, she strapped her scimitar to her side. It gave her comfort to have it there—if there was one thing Sam never second-guessed, it was her swordsmanship. She would go to dinner as a warrior and she would leave as one, too.

At sunset, Sam made the long climb to the top of the Beyaz Kale. An armed guard waited outside the entryway to the domed tower, a man Sam had never seen before. They gave each other the once over, the slight widening of his eyes betraying the guard’s shock. Interesting. This man was no Uriel or the sight of a woman in men’s garb would not have surprised him. Even the Uriel who had not met Sam would know who she was by now. “Sam of Haywood,” she stated clearly.

The guard pulled his eyes back into their sockets and moved aside. He must have been given her name. Sam nodded her thanks and stepped past him into the tower—then immediately wished she hadn’t. Four men sat around an oak refectory table. Sander sat at the head of the table, Tristan sat on his left; the back of a silver head could only be Braeden, and…

“Father,” she said.

The Duke of Haywood rose from his seat. “Samantha.” His gaze roamed over her, taking in her boyish attire. “You look well.”

Sam’s eyes moved from her father to Tristan, to Braeden, and finally to Sander. Had they conspired to send her packing? Why else would the Duke of Haywood sit so casually at their table? It did not surprise her to see her father with Tristan, but Braeden? A month ago, she would not have believed Braeden capable of such a thing, but perhaps he’d had enough of her.

Addressing the three of them, she said, “There are less cruel ways to get rid of me. I did not know any of you to be cruel men.” She turned and headed for the doorway. She would not cry, not in front of them. She would gather what coin she could scrounge up, pack up her belongings, and go…go…go where? Her shoulders slumped. The world had no want of a woman warrior.

“Sam, wait.” The voice was her father’s, but he never called her Sam. “I did not come here to force you to return to Haywood."

Sam turned back toward him. “No? Then why did you come?”

“I came to meet with Sander Branimir.”

An ugly laugh broke from her lips. “I am a fool. Of course you did not come to Luca for my sake. What a monumental waste of time and effort that would have been, Your Grace.”

“Sam,” her father said tightly. “Compose yourself. We will talk of this later.”

She dropped into a mocking curtsy, the movement made awkward by her lack of skirts. “Forgive me, Your Grace. How dare I air our family drama so publicly? Sander, I do hope you weren’t planning to use me as leverage in your business negotiations with the Duke. His Grace doesn’t give a fig about me, you see.”

“Quiet!” the Duke of Haywood shouted. “How self-righteous you are, you who let me believe my own flesh and blood was dead!”

Sam jeered at him. “Flesh and blood means nothing more to you than insurance for the family line. I’m sorry for inconveniencing you by leaving.”

The Duke’s face paled to white. “Is that really what you believe of me?” he asked quietly. Sam said nothing. He closed his eyes. “Then I have failed you as a father.” He straightened, as if remembering himself, and returned to his seat by Sander’s side.

Sander pushed back from the table. “Sam, would you take a seat? I did not ask you here for underhanded reasons. Had I realized the enmity between you and your father—” he smiled apologetically at the Duke—“I would have forewarned you he would be here.”

And now, it was Sam who remembered herself. “I was out of line.” She should have been stoic in front of Sander and let the cards fall where they may before rushing to judgment. Perhaps there was hope for her yet. “I would hear what you have to say.”

Sam took the seat next to Tristan, positioned directly across from Braeden. His head was bowed, so she saw only the silver top of his hair. Look at me, she willed. He did not. It was worse than not seeing him at all.

Playing the good host, Sander filled five pewter goblets with red wine and set them in front of each of his guests before reclaiming his spot at the head of the table. He took a long sip, cupping his drink with both hands. “I need the liquid courage,” he said with a self-deprecating grimace, “for it is not easy tidings I bear.” He ran his finger along the rim of his goblet. “War is coming. It is an inevitability, and one I can forestall no longer. I must find allies where I can.”

“You want Haywood’s aid,” stated the Duke. “What war would you have us fight?”

“A war you will have to fight, one way or the other,” Sander said. “When the time comes to choose a side, I ask that you choose mine.”

The Duke of Haywood sighed. “Must you always speak in riddles, Branimir? Speak plainly, man.”

Sam’s brows drew to a point. The Duke spoke to Sander with far too much familiarity for a first acquaintance. “Do you two know each other?” she asked.

Her father cut her a glance. “I am a politician, Samantha. I make a business of knowing men of import. Of course I would know the Earl of Luca.”

“The Earl of Luca? You told me you were no aristocrat,” Tristan interjected.

Sander waved his hand. “The title is purely incidental. When the old Earl died, he left no heirs, so the title defaulted to me by marriage. It’s a formality I seldom use.”

“Then Luca is yours to rule by right,” Tristan said wonderingly. “I had thought you an interloper. The High Commander is mad to have ordered your capture. It’s akin to declaring civil war.” Realization dawned across his features. “Oh.”

Sander raised his drink. “Precisely,” he said. “The High Commander of the Paladins has declared open war against Luca, the Uriel, and any who sympathize with our cause.” He gestured with his goblet at Sam, Braeden and Tristan. “You three have officially been named traitors, by the by.”

A/N: Yay more cliffhangers! This chapter will have several parts I think. A TON of stuff still needs to happen before the end. Don't worry, romance fans, it's around the corner, I promise! Let me know what you think in the comments, and please show your support by voting!