Dragon Rings: The Ring-Witches of Nesht, #1

By Debi Ennis Binder

A force of destruction sweeps through the realm, leaving behind a trail of charred forests and villages, and the dying screams of man and beast alike. Sent with her fellow reevers to find and kill the invaders, Ring-Witch Mayra unexpectedly meets an enigmatic assassin who's far more distracting than she has time for. Not one to pass up offered help, Mayra and Wolfe soon discover evidence of something utterly unanticipated—a dragon. As soon as Mayra is alone, the beast touches her mind, filling her with searing, mind-rending pain while desperately apologizing. During this and other eerie encounters, she senses his gentle, selfless soul, even when he reveals that something evil has him helplessly enthralled. Mayra is desperate to help him, for dragons were long ago allies of the Ring-Witches. But their presence now will cause a war the Ring-Witches cannot win. Will she—can she—destroy them as commanded? Or will Mayra betray her kingdom and jeopardize a life with Wolfe to free them? Is she prepared to lose everything, gambling on the truth of arcane mythos? Did dragons forge a link with witches by gifting them the mystical Rings they wear? Or is it all a ruse by a mighty Prime Dragon to take back what dragons once ruled—the beautiful realm of Nesht?

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debi Ennis Binder
• Release date: Oct 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386935605

Debi Ennis Binder

Debi’s books lead into magical worlds and glorious realms, strong, courageous women and men, grumpy griffins, and benevolent dragons, fighting the evil that threatens their worlds. Snarky cats are talkative; however, the sly foxes and crabby imps might switch sides before you know it. Debi’s tales draw you into battles between good and evil, so choose your side carefully. But be warned—things in magical worlds are rarely what they seem to be.

Book preview

Prologue

THE FERTILE, PROSPEROUS lands of the kingdom of Nesht had been ripe for attack for many years. Despite the strength and diversity of protection provided to the realm by its king, his guards were not always easy to contact, and they traveled slowly by horse. Thus, Nesht's defenses, while expert, were predictable and sporadic. The King of Nesht would soon learn how weak his protection was.

A silent blue-skinned man sat atop a massive black dragon. Together they perched unnoticed on the rim of the canyon, watching the Fortress below—as they had for the previous two days—while the inhabitants went about their business. A foul-smelling, slavering beast with snarled black fur, sharp claws, and long, curved teeth sat near the human, squatting on the dragon’s haunch. It also watched but for different reasons. Somewhere in its tiny brain, it knew it would soon have freshly slaughtered food, and it was getting excited.

The outpost of the Fortress sat near that particular rim. Though once responsible for guarding the canyon entry into the Fortress, its burned-out shell held nothing now but dead humans.

The black creature dug its claws between the scales near the dragon’s thigh, and the dragon stirred and growled.

Lie still, the man snarled and sawed savagely on the exquisitely tooled and enchanted reins attached to the enormous animal he held in bondage.

That action sent intense, scorching pain shooting through the dragon’s mouth. Breath-taking agony wormed its way through the immense creature’s head and body, leaving him numb and nearly immobile. The black male struggled to slowly turn his head and fix a cold, golden star-burst eye on his rider.

I will not show weakness!

The human didn’t understand, but still, he chuckled.

Liberate yourself; I might die by your bite, he taunted. But now—you are mine.

The dragon Gaulte shifted, feeling for a loosening of the enchanted reins, but such an opportunity never came. The blue human—the dragons knew his kind as Phailites—was young and robust, as vicious and soulless as the invader thought the dragon to be. The reins would not slacken today.

Since their capture, Gaulte’s bond with the other dragons had often allowed him to feel that same pain as the great beasts tested the resolve of their captors. They did not escape, either.

Gaulte released a nearly imperceptible rumbling that started deep in his chest, sending it across the valley where he and the Phailite waited. Around the rim sat more riders, seated upon seven other similarly bound dragons. Gaulte’s heartening song traveled to all the male kin of his Aerie—the vast system of caves and rivers that comfortably housed all his Clan. He reassured them but also reminded them to be vigilant.

Not today—but soon—Gaulte or one of his kin would feel those reins slacken. And in that instant, they would turn on the rider and kill. The ensuing chaos would be all the dragons needed to launch a vengeful and bloody escape.

Not today, when blue humans held his mate and nestlings helpless, possibly injured—vicious Phailites who knew the dragons’ kin were the key to the males’ cooperation.

He did not know where the invaders confined his Clan, but he would soon wrap his claws around this blue creature. He would catch his evil black eyes and find his Center and then his mind. He would take those worthless thoughts, and Gaulte—the great black dragon—would force the Phailite to show Gaulte where to find what they had stolen from the dragons. And then—Gaulte would kill.

Gaulte tamped down the savage fury that raced through him and forced himself to think about the enormous caves of Ceshon Aerie, lined with sweet-smelling wood and rushes, warm and sheltering, about his mate, Hesta, a beautiful and brilliant red dragon with golden eyes and a wicked sense of humor.

And their nestlings: two beautiful red females and his male heir, the eldest, the first to hatch and already a mighty handful.

Nets and fire had injured his mate and terrified the nestlings. A concerted attack against the Aerie’s familial groups had been ruthless enough to ensure the males’ obedience. Somehow, an unknown enemy had known the Aerie males would be away hunting. Given that information, their adversary had crafted their plans to be swift and savage and carried them out with brutal precision.

The only evidence the adult dragons had was from the accounts of four frightened six-yearlings—mischief-makers skipping the day’s tutoring. The frightened younglings had seen the females and nestlings captured by the blue humans. They had not seen anyone seriously injured by the attackers—but those young males had seen bloodshed.

There was barely enough time to hear their reports and hide them away with the Elder before the blue humans boldly appeared before the devastated Aerie. Seeking the male dragons, their bearing swaggering and overconfident, the puny blue creatures laughed as they made their demands known. Gaulte, at that moment, hated as he had never thought himself capable.

To save their Clan kin, captured and held by these Phailites, the male dragons became enthralled chattel, forced to kill and maim—to destroy other humans for no reason Gaulte could discern. Dragons did not slay other dragons—or humans—without cause.

And now, we have cause.

Gaulte settled both brain and muscles as sensation began to return to him. Once he had calmed himself, another feeling recurred. Something was touching him, not physically, like the vile touch of the blue human or the black demon bushdog—but inside him.

The touch—creeping through him, seeking and cautious—was not that of another dragon. The new and disquieting presence had started the previous day as soon as he had neared the Fortress. It was a flitting, annoying impression he neither recognized nor understood. It confounded him, it worried him, but he was resolute.

He would ignore it. It was not significant.

He gazed down at the gray and black stone Fortress below, the next target of the blue humans. Gaulte wondered if those humans below had gods. Dispassionately, he regretted what would soon happen—a Fortress full of lives worth nothing to these attackers. He hoped, at least, that they had time to raise their piteous cries to those gods before the sheer horror of dragons, demon things, and fiery weapons rained down upon them. And they were all dead before they knew what had even happened to them.

Now—

Chapter One

A LARGE BRONZE PLATTER sailed close to the young woman and the timeworn man, slamming against a large column of white stone before finally disappearing into a small pool of blue water. The column was nicked and scratched, and not in only one place. King Forcial Triestyn, the hereditary king of Nesht, often targeted the pool for his bouts of displeasure.

Mayra ara’Ferren, High Ring-Witch of the Kioreu Clan of reevers, watched without expression as her sovereign simmered in the throes of a temper fit, the likes of which she had not seen from him in years.

She glanced at Leisher Bren, Warlord of the Kioreu Clan. He was staring absently at nothing; she suspected he, too, was recalling the last time a platter of fruit had gone sailing across the room and into the pool at the center of this small chamber, the king’s favorite. The incident that had caused that exhibition had been insignificant. This one was not.

This time, Mayra feared, there was a valid reason the king should be concerned. People were missing; regrettably, the king had chosen a petulant and indulgent way to contend with the mystery. After the last time it had taken place, she thought she had dissuaded him from such an exhibition.

Her silvery-gray eyes, large and misleadingly guileless, barely concealed her irritation. She had known the king for many years and had seen him enraged, sick, dispirited, and in love. The usually even-tempered monarch dealt with his subjects with everything from compassion to cunning to vile threats—whichever worked better. Why was he acting this way when something extraordinary and still-unidentified appeared to have affected his people and levies?

What was he thinking now? Why couldn’t he sit on a traditional wood and leather throne, like any other sensible king, rather than one of priceless oakenwood? Sometimes, she needed to feel what was wrong with the man; that damned wood prevented her from using her magic as nothing else could.

Fucking wood elves and their stupid homage.

After several minutes, where the others in the throne room sat or stood silently, Forcial finally straightened himself and gestured toward the fountain.

I was letting off some excess anger, he said lightly. I do know better, thank you, Mayra. His bright eyes were now smiling. "You told me well enough several years ago that it wasn’t seemly for the ruler of the largest landmass on our world to display my displeasure for all to see and judge. I believe those were your exact words?"

Mayra felt herself redden. Yes, a few years earlier, she had cautiously used their close bond to remind him of appearances. Amazingly, rather than turn his rage on her, he had contemplated her counsel.

She, Leisher, and four of the king’s men were now the only people in the room. With the two reevers present, Forcial knew he did not require any other protection nearby. The guards were for show, and the middle-aged retainer had been with Forcial since the servant was a child.

But, Forcial continued, "I am beyond concerned now. Almost fifty years ago, I became king. My first law was to decree that certain young men and women of Nesht, their skills determined while young, would receive enhanced learning until ready to undergo specific, unique training. And then, they’d join our society as tax-paying citizens. He chuckled. What an excellent concept not to forsake exceptional young people by demoting them to lives as farmers, hunters, drab wives, or shopkeeps."

Mayra stifled a sigh. He did love relaying his grand decisions. They were true, but she was tired of being periodically lectured about them.

Additionally, Forcial carried on happily, I decided that instead of paying annual levies, the realm of Orrissa would be responsible for gathering, educating, and training the tributes. They’ve done very well—until now. His deep voice changed. Anger crackled in his tone. The young people should have made the trip south and arrived here, in Sayron—my city, my palace, over three weeks ago. Where are they?

Mayra glanced over at her warlord. The cause of the ridiculous tantrum was much more severe than the king wanted them to believe, but Forcial did so love to make an announcement. Those knowing King Forcial knew he did not condone deceit or lawbreakers and took a very dim view of anyone who seized what was his. She realized that Forcial’s suspicion of the latter was the principal reason behind his anger.

The king was still staring into space, adopting his thinking pose.

There could be but two reasons there were no tributes, he continued thoughtfully. Either someone has stolen them, or they rebelled against my law and couldn’t be bothered to show up at Fortress Trandye. He thought a bit longer. But had they never arrived for training, the Fortress would have immediately contacted us. Is someone at Trandye holding them for his purposes?

Mayra guessed the king had been thinking about the missing tributes for quite a while. His well-considered possibilities impressed her.

She straightened her back against the hard chair, wondering how much longer she would have to be there. She was tired and hungry. She gazed longingly at the fruit in the pool.

As her mind wandered, her gaze went from the king to her warlord.

When do older men start to look so similar? she wondered idly. A frivolous—and bored—streak of mischief struck her. What if a thin, bewhiskered Forcial was muscular like Leisher? And huge, brawny Leisher withered down to wiry Forcial? She tried to picture what the king and the warlord had looked like as young men. Weren’t they the same age? Neither was handsome—but both were still attractive and not just because of the power each wielded. As, in her mind’s eye, she envisioned the two men as younger, it surprised her to imagine how much a youthful Leisher must have resembled a younger Forcial. Her eyebrows drew together as her eyes went back and forth between them.

She almost smiled. Imagination was pointless, wasn’t it? She was so damnably bored lately that she was ready to request a tutoring post at the Sorcery Guild to have something different to do.

The young High Ring-Witch surreptitiously moved about in her travel-stained clothing. She was itchy and wanted to bathe.

She suddenly felt hot, as though she’d been in the sun too long. Her eyes flew down to peer at the bare skin on her forearms. Nothing. She faithfully used the herbal creams she made to ensure the sun never kissed her skin. The hotness passed, leaving her confused, and she shifted again.

Really, this was ridiculous. A mental groan—Mayra stifled a yawn. How much longer would these two men sit and stare into space?

"Ahem. Mayra?"

The king’s soft voice made her start, and she felt her cheeks redden. He hadn’t asked her a question, had he? Her attention snapped back to the room as she realized Leisher was watching her oddly. As she turned a questioning glance on him, she saw that he wore the same quizzical expression as did Forcial.

Yes, Majesty?

Her jumpiness was more evidence of just how tired she was. She needed to pay better attention to what was going on at this moment. Having seen this ruler at his best and his worst, she wasn’t afraid of him. He treated her with respect and affection, and she returned the sentiment. But she did not need to poke this particular dire-wolf. She hid a quick smile, picturing the king as the bad-tempered, oversized beast. That description fits Leisher far better. Forcial is more like a weasel—lean and cunning.

Indulge me, he said lightly. What is a reever?

A reever is a warrior, she replied promptly. Linked to a Clan and trained to ride for the king, serving as his voice, his command, and imposing his rule. Each reever Clan is tasked with maintaining order, collecting taxes, ensuring proper levels of discipline, and meting out suitable punishment, as the king or the warlord deem appropriate. She ended the rote reply and gave the king a questioning look.

Yes, exactly. Reevers ride at the king’s pleasure. And how long have you been riding with Leisher?

Since I was five and ten, Majesty. I apprenticed with my uncle until I became the Kioreu Clan’s High Ring-Witch.

Yes, my youngest Ring-Witch ever, Forcial murmured. Your Rings—did you know what they really were, Mayra?

Mayra skillfully hid her surprise. Why was Forcial asking so many strange questions? Of course, she distinctly remembered the days before the deed. She could still see herself—a girl of eight years, in the inner chambers of the Sorcery Guild, holding these Rings in small hands. Gazing at the Guildmaster in wonder as she ran gentle fingers over myriad filaments that lined the inside of each Ring, some so fine that they were barely visible.

But the rest—how could she remember having them placed on her wrists? Though she had wondered some things about her Rings even then—how can there be magic in metal—she had been too young to question anything more profound or presumptuous.

Not really, Majesty, she replied and shook her head. I still comprehend only the basic mechanics of the Rings.

Mayra might well wonder why he was asking such odd questions. Her fingers unconsciously traced over the wide black Rings that encircled her wrists. As her fingers touched the deep engravings, gentle vibrations traveled through the metal, sending comforting calm within her.

King Forcial was awaiting her to finish her reply, but before she could speak, he said, The Guildmaster showed me a Ring, and I wondered about those hair-like wires. He told me they would become so much a part of you that they couldn’t be removed without killing you. I thought that was a difficult concept for a child to grasp, but he assured me that you always had respected obligation more than even children older than you.

Mayra looked away from Forcial. She would never forget earning her Rings, awakening with hands and fingers that she could barely move—with metal-like Rings, now a part of her and the final, glorious achievement afforded to witches—-becoming Ring-Witches. She would never share that with someone who could not begin to understand—she didn’t like the king discussing her Rings so carelessly.

Forcial was still gazing at her; his smile was both charming and terrifying. Another chill crawled up her spine.

She sincerely hoped his strange questions didn’t mean he would attempt to blame the Kioreu Clan for the missing tributes. Reevers did not typically guard the tributes on their journey to the king; that was the duty of Fortress guards. Reevers were far too valuable to use as guardians for excitable children.

Though she had done nothing wrong and knew he wasn’t directing his anger at her or Leisher—she was worried.

LEISHER BREN WISHED he had the outward calm of his High Ring-Witch. He couldn’t decide where Forcial was going with his strange ramblings about reevers and tributes. The warlord didn’t like it when he couldn’t get ahead of the king’s thoughts.

His blue eyes rested on Forcial for a moment. Leisher realized the king was enjoying his command of his reevers. Couldn’t he play all-mighty Monarch later? Leisher was hungry and tired.

It is nigh on winter, the king continued. "The taxes have been collected from across the land. Fortress Trandye’s liege, Lord Duncan, has never before neglected to send tributes.

I was concerned that someone had attacked the tributes, so I sent runners to follow the roads they took, and they did not return, either. Fearing some dire difficulty, I then sent a small contingency of my personal guards to bring back a report—and they are also missing.

Leisher’s sharp eyes narrowed on the king’s face. Why hadn’t Forcial contacted Leisher as soon as the second group had failed to report?

King Forcial sat back, rubbing one hand down the burnished oakenwood arm of his throne. He fixed his eyes on Mayra again. Am I seeing the beginnings of a rebellion? Perhaps one involving highborn who have gotten too powerful through the years?

Mayra’s eyes widened. Majesty, no! You’ve not seen any sign of such a thing. There must be another reason!

A sudden thought occurred to Leisher. Could the crux of Forcial’s fury be that the king had misplaced the Kioreu Clan? Leisher almost chuckled. Forcial had sent the Clan south the previous month for something far too insignificant for their capabilities—local thieves—but he wanted them near the border in case he needed a show of force. And they were not available when the king needed them because of his thoughtless action.

Still—highborn who have gotten too powerful through the years? If that thought was in Forcial’s head, it was problematic for Leisher.

Sudden laughter rumbled up from Forcial. Leisher’s attention snapped back to the king.

Your lovely face is both outraged and terrified, my dear Mayra! The king’s customarily untroubled behavior around these two particular reevers had returned, the crisis averted—for now.

Leisher moved uncomfortably; his eyes scraped over the two guards at the door. Something as innocuous as the king addressing Mayra as my dear, his remark that her face was lovely, would undoubtedly find its way to the queen. Some people at court thought that Mayra ara’Ferren wielded too much influence over King Forcial. The queen, among others, watched the young Ring-Witch with suspicion and jealousy.

Leisher spoke up, his rough voice carrying across the vast room: Majesty, we have just returned this day to your court, but we can leave at once to ride north if that is your wish.

THOUGH MAYRA’S FACE did not change, her heart sank. She was tired of a horse between her legs, her bottom hurt, and she smelled. She wasn’t ready to ride yet.

The king strummed his fingers on the armrest, gazing thoughtfully at the reever warlord. Mayra wondered what was going on in Forcial’s head and whether she might suggest that a smaller group—one that did not necessarily need to include her—might make a quick trip to the north.

She almost smiled. A High Ring-Witch, making such a suggestion to the king, no matter how genial or fond of her he was, was nothing more than a moment’s hopeful dream. Proof that she was too tired to think straight. Reevers never traveled without their Ring-Witch. And a Ring-Witch did not make such foolish suggestions to her king.

She straightened abruptly. A towering figure—no, a horse and its rider staggered into sight, scarcely visible in the late afternoon light. Beyond the wide open doors, the two thrashed between two bushes until the small horse stepped onto the cobbled walkway. The mount balked and shook itself, sending the rider flopping into the grass.

Leisher, she said tersely, swiftly rising to her feet, already reaching for one of the wicked daggers in her boot. Her function was to guard the king; Leisher’s was to sort out the danger. The three personal guards—whatever the king wanted to do with them, she didn’t care.

The guards were moving closer to the king, the retainer moving out of the way. She would take Forcial out opposite the garden entry and deeper into the palace, should this threat include multiple—Mayra’s methodical thought process abruptly stopped. The fallen rider’s state had finally registered in her head.

Even at that distance, she saw the man was bloody and burned. Slowly, she moved toward Forcial, watching as the man in the garden rose from a crouch and lurched forward up the path toward the throne room. The king, seeing her alarm, turned and followed her gaze. She raised a quelling hand to Forcial, still not satisfied the situation was safe for the king.

For a long moment, Mayra thought the king would explode yet again. A man had ridden a horse through the king’s gardens and into the small yard that served as his private sanctuary. But he, too, seemed to notice the rider’s condition, and he gestured toward one of the hovering retainers. The servant hurried out to the garden. As the retainer ran to assist the injured rider, Mayra sent one guard to find a Healer. Standing nearby, awaiting any orders, she glanced at Leisher, who gave a slight shrug of his broad, scarred shoulders.

Mayra hated to think selfish thoughts, and she was concerned for the injured man, but she suddenly hoped the king would forget the missing tributes, runners, and guards long enough for her to rest in her rooms and bathe in her bathtub.

THE HEALER HAD BROUGHT a soft rug; he threw it across a large table, and the retainer laid the wounded man upon it. A quick inspection of his clothing did not find any identifying badge. His appearance and garb suggested he was a village runner rather than one of the palaces’ messengers the king had previously dispatched.

As the Healer washed away the blood, the man murmured incoherently. The Healer then lifted the man’s head so he could take a sip of wine, dosed with several drops of pera blossom. He licked his swollen lips as his eyes wandered over the faces staring at him. Finally, they settled on the king.

Maj...Majesty, he mumbled. They came—

King Forcial laid his hands on the man’s shoulders. Be calm, my good man. You have been direly harmed; let the Healer help you before you speak any further.

Please, Majesty. The man was strengthening as he calmed, and the pera blossom worked its magic, masking his pain. I must tell you. I am hurt and,—he made a vague gesture toward his torso— I rode through Trandye village. It burned to the ground. People—everyone dead. Gone. I tried to find anyone—it was near night, and something unseen attacked me. I heard sounds—he swallowed—inhuman noises. I came to warn—I don’t know what happened...

His voice trailed off as the drug finally took full effect.

The king straightened and stared at Leisher. To Mayra’s dismay, the wild anger flared in his eyes again. The missing tributes. His hands curled into fists. "By the gods, I will know what happened!"

Mayra gave a silent sigh. There would be no bath or familiar bed tonight. She did not follow Leisher to speak with the king but sank back into her seat, her eyes on the silver-haired man who had been king for nearly five decades. Whether dealing with a crisis or an injured subject, his compassion and wisdom never failed to move her. Perhaps, at times, he was entitled to express himself childishly. And send his reevers off to seek out missing children.

KING FORCIAL TRIESTYN let himself into his private library. He went to the thickly cushioned seat near the fireplace and sat down. Retainers had left wine and fruit within his reach.

He knew he was not alone; his expected guest was standing near the window, a man dressed in black, accustomed to hiding in shadows, where he was evidently more comfortable.

May I offer you some wine? the king asked abruptly.

The tall, muscular man turned from the dark window and sat down across from the king. The stranger politely refused the drink, took a piece of fruit, and polished it on his shirt sleeve. The snapping fire drew his unusual eyes, mirroring flames that cast shadows across a dark, striking face.

Forcial chuckled and drew those strange eyes to him. Finally, the younger man took a bite of the juicy apple.

Is your shirt sleeve still set with a strip of that unusual fabric that changes color when it comes in contact with poison? asked the king lightly.

Majesty, I would never be concerned about your poisoning me. The stranger’s voice was low and vibrant. I am much too valuable to you, and I’ve done nothing to displease you.

Indeed. And have you been informed of what just happened in my garden chamber? asked the king.

Yes, I received a quick telling from the guard you sent to find me. What do you gather from the incident?

Forcial shook his head. Nothing, as yet. Or perhaps too much. A slight grin touched the king’s lined face. I did learn that the Kioreu Clan has a High Ring-Witch who has, through the years, learned to keep her face expressionless and tongue silent—taught no doubt by a warlord who has become no less dangerous with age. They will set out tomorrow morning for the Fortress to find out what happened. If you set out immediately and ride harder than them, you should reach the Fortress well before they do.

I expect they will be stopping along the way to investigate. Is that all, Majesty? He started to rise.

Forcial considered the younger man for a long moment. Where is your brother? he asked abruptly.

As fate would have it, he is one of the tributes who vanished, the other replied in an emotionless voice.

The king looked surprised. I am sorry to hear that.

A faint smile touched the lips of the handsome, elven-blood man who now stood opposite him. I am not, Majesty. It is the one thing that makes me believe they are all still alive somewhere.

Chapter Two

HAVING WRANGLED PERMISSION to leave the next dawn versus as soon as the Clan could saddle fresh horses that same evening, Warlord Leisher Bren had let Mayra sleep as long as was possible the following morning.

He knocked lightly at her door; when there was no answer, he opened it wide enough to step in. Across the large chamber, she was visible in the dim light of dawn, sound asleep in her huge bed.

He closed the door behind him. The room was silent, but for the gentle, ubiquitous sound of the running water that operated most of the mechanics of the palace.

Leisher paused as his eyes took in the two chambers—living and bed—visible from the door. Mayra had redecorated again, adding rich nuances copied from the strange, colorful furnishings and adornments she had encountered in Xaudke, the largest city in the exotic—and newest—realm of Faras Hiete. Leisher’s Clan had spent several days there the previous year, helping Forcial’s warriors stop meaningless border skirmishes. He shook his head. It was her money, but she tended to be somewhat extreme when she wanted a change.

He walked to the side of the bed and stood gazing down at Mayra’s small face. He wondered if she dreamed of pleasant things. She had seen more death and destruction riding with his reevers than many men ever would. Only when she slept was her face softened and relaxed enough to look young and vulnerable. Other times, she guarded her face and thoughts so carefully that she tended to look too forbidding to approach.

Leisher waved his hand over the light at Mayra’s bedside, and the hidden lamps in the room gradually brightened. Her eyes opened; if she was surprised to see him, her face did not show it. He stepped back as she sat up.

Good morning, he said. "The king has