Deyvan Corliann leaned back in the plush chair, pushing the thick red hair back from his face as he examined the message his servant had delivered. A summons in his uncle’s hand. Uncle Caildenn never wrote his own summons. It could only mean he wanted to discuss something away from the prying eyes of the imperial court. The last time Uncle Caildenn had sent a personal summons to call a meeting, he’d invited Lady Mirjari Varela and her entourage from the northern kingdom of Sernyii to negotiate trade. Two weeks later, Lady Varela had sought sanctuary among Deyvan’s household as the empire marched north to war seeking vengeance for the murder of the Uncle Caildenn’s sons.

A twinge of guilt ran through Deyvan’s heart. Prince Jaylen had known, somehow. Poor boy, barely old enough to start learning the ways of a royal house, and yet he’d clung to Deyvan like a lifeline, begging not to be left behind. I’ll miss you when I’m gone, the boy had said. And despite the desperation in his eyes, Deyvan had been sure he meant the imperial family’s coming tour of the provinces. Who could have guessed the boy knew his father’s guests intended murder that very night.

Deyvan rose, pushing the memories away. Jaylen and his older brother had been gone ten years now and Uncle Caildenn had refused to wed in all that time. The time to name a new heir was long past. Everyone knew that heir was Deyvan’s father. This summons seemed to say otherwise.

He crossed the opulent study Uncle Caildenn had given him and threw the door open. Two guards snapped to attention at his presence, their tunics finely pressed in imperial purple, swords polished to a shine. More like statues than trained men at arms. Lounging in a far more natural indolence against the far wall, Ymari Sandrine licked the last honey from an oat roll off her fingers and looked up at him through the natural frizz of her hair. He could feel the anger his own guards directed at the woman, her foreign disregard for Deyvan’s rank simmering in their narrow-eyed glares.

“Ymari.” Deyvan stepped across the hall to lean on the wall beside her. “What brings you to my study this morn?”

She grinned at him, the bright white of her teeth a sharp contrast to the darker brown of her skin. “I come for this news.” She waved a hand at the slip of paper he still held. “Words say you go to speak with him. My people have desires to know the intent.”

“Your people wish to know,” he corrected, biting back his frustration at her broken speech. She’d proven herself too smart to mangle the imperial tongue, but she made no effort to correct her language. As if she was proud of her foreign accent and the misconceptions it bred.

“You will tell?” She pushed away from the wall, turning down the corridor toward his uncle’s study. “Or may it be true that the gods stole your will when They stole your skin’s colors and your wits?”

Deyvan sprang forward, throwing a hand up to forestall the guards before they could react. No one dared speak ill of the native imperial bloodlines in Uncle Caildenn’s palace. Not if they hoped to live long enough to utter an apology. But Ymari had never shown the sense his countrymen had learned through blood and brutality. One of the guards advanced despite his warning, hand clenched on the hilt of his sword.

“My companion jests, goodsir,” Deyvan said, stepped between the guard and Ymari. “Stand down or face my uncle’s wrath.”

The guard glared for another few breaths while Deyvan’s heart pounded in his chest. With the newly established Serni Province still threatening rebellion and their western neighbors in Mindaine pulling away from imperial treaties, the last thing Uncle Caildenn needed was a holy war from Ymari’s homeland because a guard couldn’t take a joke.

“As you command, my lord,” the guard said at last. “But your companion may wish to watch her tongue before she faces your imperial uncle’s anger herself.”

“Come, Ymari.”

Deyvan strode down the hall, not waiting for her to follow. She had no reason to stay with the guards anyway. She’d come to see him, or so she claimed, though she had yet to tell him what her people wanted with the prince of an all-but-dead province who only held a title from his aunt’s marriage into the imperial bloodline. The treaty that had sealed his province into a land-pact with the imperial high-realm had stripped any true power his father held and left Deyvan a meaningless extra in the cycle of inheritance. Unless Uncle Caildenn’s summons meant what he suspected. What Ymari seemed to have guessed. But such a change could only harm her plans. If Uncle Caildenn named Deyvan his heir, the responsibilities would keep Deyvan far too busy for whatever Ymari wanted.

“You will speak?” Ymari paced beside him, her eyes fixed on Deyvan as he walked. An arrogance that would have gotten her flogged for insolence if she hadn’t arrived on a diplomatic assignment.Not that Uncle Caildenn showed much respect for the sovereignty of his neighbors.

“I’ll have to talk to my uncle,” Deyvan said. “I won’t know anything until I hear what he wants to discuss.”

“You know of what things he will speak,” Ymari said. “My Eldreign has decreed. He sees much to find your courage, hidden in your lamb’s heart.”

Deyvan chuckled. “That’s hardly complimentary, Ymari. My people would say I have the heart of a lion, or perhaps a warig fighting for its den.”

“They lie.”

Ymari shrugged, examining the tapestries Uncle Caildenn had hung along the hall to his private study. Each one depicted a moment of triumph in war, typically with Uncle Caildenn or one of his ancestors standing victorious over the mass of dead bodies. Deyvan grimaced at the glorified gore, frowning at the floor. Ymari was baiting him. He’d practiced ignoring her callous dismissal of his skills, but this one stung more than he cared to accept. She knew he wasn’t timid in a fight.

“So if I’m a lamb, why would your holy leader, your Eldreign, send you to me? What good can a coward serve for your cause?”

“I called you not a coward, Day-van.” Ymari smirked at him. “Not always is a lamb fearful. But always is it gentle, and often is it smart. A lion, brave he may be, but also vicious and without mercy.”

A smile crept across his face, his wounded pride soothed by the explanation. He knew better than to think the worst of her. Ymari seemed as fascinated with Deyvan’s life as he was with her culture. And whatever her intentions, she’d never treated him poorly before.

Deyvan paused at the final turn that led to Uncle Caildenn’s study. “Well, my lady, I’ll have to leave you here. My uncle gave no indication he’d allow a guest at this meeting. Shall we reconvene to discuss our plans this eve?”

“See you when I am ready, I will.” She retraced her steps, gaze trailing across the violent scenes as though she were a mindless girl wandering a flower garden.

With a deep breath, Deyvan stepped around the corner and pasted a smile on his face, knocking briskly on the door of Uncle Caildenn’s study. A moment of silence, then a shuffle of papers and whispered words, and after a few more moments the door swung open. No sign of Uncle Caildenn’s visitor.

“Uncle, how are you?” Deyvan placed a hand on his heart and offered a slight bow, waiting for the response before moving further.

“Come in, Deyvan.” Uncle Caildenn waved the guard by the door away. “Leave us. My nephew has no reason to wish me ill and we have matters of state to discuss.”

Deyvan straightened, entering Uncle Caildenn’s cherry wood paneled study to take a formal stance by the cold fireplace. The guard wasted no time vacating his post, closing the door behind him with a swiftness that spoke of Uncle Caildenn’s mood. Whoever Uncle Caildenn had ushered out just before Deyvan arrived, they’d brought unwelcome news.

“I’m honored by your summons, Uncle, but what matters of state need my attention?”

“Tell me of the woman who stalks you,” Uncle Caildenn replied, running a hand across his mustache. “I’ve heard rumors. What does she want in my empire?”

“Ymari?” Deyvan scrambled for an answer. He’d sworn to keep what he knew of her presence quiet, although he couldn’t help but wonder if that had been wise. “Her ruler sent her to gather information on our empire to determine if they were interested in offering an alliance. Of course I haven’t given her any information that would jeopardize our security. She clearly doesn’t have solid alliances here anyway, given that she was sent to someone as insignificant as me.”

“Insignificant?” Uncle Caildenn considered him from behind his steepled hands. “You, nephew, were born into privilege and power. Why, if not for my grandfather’s treaty, you’d be heir to a province by now.”

“But I’m not,” Deyvan said. “I’ve never been in line for a throne and I never will be. Corlin Province is dead, and though my mother’s sister had the honor to be your wife, I have no blood ties to the imperial family.”

“No one has blood ties to the imperial family any longer.” Uncle Caildenn’s face clouded with anger as he spoke and he frowned down at a report on the table before him. His golden blond hair fell across the sharply defined cheekbones that had always marked the imperial bloodline.

“I’m sorry, Uncle.” Deyvan grimaced. “I didn’t mean to remind you of your boys. Such a terrible tragedy.”

“It’s been a decade,” Uncle Caildenn said. “And I’ve caught and punished the assassins responsible.” With visible effort, Uncle Caildenn looked up, the anger clearing from his features. “But that’s not why I called you here. You’ve more import than you know, and I suspect our Yllshanan guest has seen as much.”

“Well, Uncle—” Deyvan hesitated. Ymari had trusted him. Or had she? “She hasn’t told me much. Just that her ruler thinks a connection with me would benefit both nations. It’s clear she has plans, but as yet I’ve no reason to think she means us ill.”

Uncle Caildenn sighed. “You’re too naive, boy. Anyone would take our land if given the chance, Yllshana more than most. Think of the benefit if they married into our royal line. We’d be forced to support them when they next feud with Osuvia. Those mountain passes would be the end of our soldiers.”

“Ymari’s not even in a position to unite our royal houses, and neither am I.”

“You’re not so stupid as to misunderstand my summons.” Uncle Caildenn scoffed. “I’ll need your aid with the details, though. By law your father should get the title. He’ll have to be removed.”

“I—” Deyvan swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. Removed? He couldn’t mean to harm Deyvan’s own father.

There were rumors, of course. Vile speculation that claimed Uncle Caildenn had falsely blamed Sernyii assassins for his son’s deaths when their murderers lived closer to home. Some even said the killers lived in Uncle Caildenn’s own palace, and that Uncle Caildenn defended those murderers for reasons of his own. Other stories told of executions for minor crimes that shouldn’t have even warranted a fine, or women forced to serve at Uncle Caildenn’s pleasure against their will. But for all the talk, no one had acted against the empire. Surely if there were truth to the rumors, the high lords would never stand for it. Except they had no other heir. Deyvan’s father might be the closest to a blood relative Uncle Caildenn had, but plenty of other high lords would protest if he tried to take the throne by force. How many would protest with steel in their hands and an army at their back? And already threats of rebellion trickled south from Serni.

Deyvan pushed the fears away, focusing on Uncle Caildenn. “Certainly Father will understand choosing me. He’s near fifteen years your senior, Uncle. Naming an older man as heir seems unwise.”

“He may,” Uncle Caildenn replied. “Or he may feel that I’m delaying a transition that was long due. After all, the wisdom of such a decision depends entirely on when you intend me to die. The Serniens would see me hanged in plenty of time for your father to rule. And he might aid them.”

“Father would never betray his nation.” Deyvan paced across the room, his shoulders tight in agitation. Deyvan’s father would never turn on the empire, but Uncle Caildenn might have a new concern if he learned some of the whispers Ymari had spread in Deyvan’s chambers to Deyvan’s friends. “I swear it. Father is loyal. I’ll prove it.”

“Precisely how, nephew?” Uncle Caildenn asked. “I hardly expect a traitor to answer a direct question honestly.”

“I’ll make him sign over his title,” Deyvan said. His father had been pushing Deyvan to take the title for three years already. Probably because he expected to be named heir, but Deyvan could manage those specifics. “And the transfer will include an abdication of any claim to other titles previously held or implied to him. Any such will be transferred to me, and then you’ve no need to—” Deyvan froze. If he’d misread the comment, he’d sound treasonous. “No need to fear repercussion should you choose another as heir.”

Uncle Caildenn considered him for a long time, his silver-grey eyes boring into Deyvan. A trail of ice ran down Deyvan’s spine at the look in Uncle Caildenn’s eyes. Like fury made flesh, ready to rend anything or anyone who opposed him limb from limb. A side to Uncle Caildenn he’d never seen, hidden beneath the generous uncle who’d taken Deyvan on his first hunt and mourned the lost princes at Deyvan’s family estate. The uncle who’d treated him more as a younger brother than a nephew by forced-marriage now glared at him like an enemy.

“See it done, nephew,” Caildenn said. “If he won’t sign, I’ve no choice. The only reason to name him is because they seek my death, and I can’t trust my high lords. Prove I can trust you and I won’t harm your family.”

“Of course you can trust me, Uncle.” The words stuck in Deyvan’s throat, the horror of Uncle Caildenn’s admission lingering in his thoughts. He planned to murder a brother-by-marriage to secure the heir he wanted. And he’d expected Deyvan to understand.

With a nod and a cursory bow, Deyvan backed out the door and headed toward the imperial scribes. Maybe Ymari’s whispers held more truth than he’d given them credit for. It was time to start his own network of ears to learn as much truth as he could. And he knew exactly where to start. Turning down a side corridor, he grabbed the arm of an off duty page.

“I need to send a message,” Deyvan said, pulling a thick coin from his purse. “And I need it sent free from prying eyes.”

The boy eyed the gold coin in Deyvan’s hand. “What ya need, milord?”

Leading the boy toward an empty supply room, Deyvan grabbed a quill and paper from a stack and scribbled a quick message. He signed the end with an old nickname and folded the paper, dripping hot wax onto the fold. A plain circle served for a seal. The message would be enough identification when she opened it. Deyvan spun around and handed the message to the boy.

“To the merchant criers, a private message for Mistress Varela of Serni Province,” he said. “She’ll be in a manor house outside Lorwall. She sees no visitors, but her servants will take a message.”

The boy nodded, taking the paper and the gold coin that came with it. “As you say, milord.”

It was a start, at least. Now if he could convince Ymari to tell him her plans, he might get a handle on how bad things truly were in the Laisian Empire. Deyvan scowled and headed back to his study. One informant would do him no good without allies. And after Uncle Caildenn’s threats, potential allies were something he could no longer afford to dismiss.

For more original fiction, check out these posts:

• Taking Flight
• Lady Saylina
• Free Reign
• Stolen Time

For some thoughts on publishing and writing, check out these posts:

• Trad Pub: If you’re going to debut in epic fantasy, you better be the exception
• On Discovery Writing
• Indie Pub vs. Trad Pub
• Born Novelist

Niamsha Pereyra sank to the floor beside the worn out cot her papa used for a bed, her eyes fixed on the sweat-streaked paleness of his face. A slight bluish tinge clung to his skin as he coughed, the deep, rattling sound a sign his illness had weakened him further.

“Papa?” Her voice shook, the childish whisper barely audible over the crackle of the fire from their small hearth. Niamsha steeled herself against his raspy breathing, forcing more courage into her words. “Papa, whatcha need? I can get—”

“No, girl.” Her papa’s mouth stretched into a pained smile. An attempt to soothe her fears, no doubt. “Watch yer speech. Guild’s got enough reason ta turn ya away. That gutter speech is all they need ta—”

He cut off, thin frame shaking as he held back another fit. Niamsha reached a hand forward, pausing with her fingers just over his cheek. The darker tint of her skin stark against his too-pale figure. She laid the hand down and shook her head.

“Ain’t gonna take no ’prenticeship,” she said. And she couldn’t, anyway. Not now that the physic had raised his price again. But her papa didn’t need to know. Niamsha smiled at him. “Not with you sick an’ Em too young ta care fer ya.”

Her papa sighed, patting her hand with one of his own. His gaze settled on her hand and she knew his fears without needing to hear them. Niamsha’s coloring mirrored the mother she barely remembered, darker than the native-born residents and always drawing looks when she wandered the streets. Not many foreign-born had remained through the old emperor’s abuse, and those that stayed chose to sequester in small villages of their own over retaining their spaces in larger cities. With the war’s end that was changing, but not fast enough. Guilds had shifted apprentice policies and standing had been lost that no lord could give back to them. Her papa’s worry the glasswright’s guild would reject her held more weight than either of them wanted to admit.

Niamsha frowned. “I leave ya, who pays the rent? Who gets yer dose from the physic? I’m gettin’ good enough at glass here. I’ll learn from you, when yer better.”

“I’d wish you wanted another trade—” He coughed again, his breath tight and pained as he waved her away.

Hovering over him, Niamsha dipped a hand into the bowl of cool water she kept by the bedside. Sweat beaded on his face again as a fierce heat swept through his body. Same as every time the physic’s dose wore off. Her hand found the scrap of cloth in the water and clenched down, wringing the water out and folding the cloth into a cool patch to ease what little pain it could. The doses wore off sooner every time. Barely two hours this time.

“Papa, you need a proper healer.”

“We’ve no coin for that, girl,” her papa said. “And I ain’t taking more tinctures. It’s time. Call Emrys in.”

“He ain’t ready,” she protested. But her papa had already slumped, eyes closed as his chest rose and fell with labored breaths. She couldn’t deny Emrys a chance to speak with their papa when he was this ill. They all knew he’d never fully recover.

Niamsha laid the cool cloth on her papa’s forehead and rose, pushing aside the curtain that separated the bed from the rest of the house. The main room—just large enough to fit a table beside the dual cots for Niamsha and her brother and a set of rickety shelves that once held her mother’s books—was dark and cold. She paced through the room toward the back door. No fire in the hearth and the doorway on the far wall revealed her papa’s long-abandoned workshop. The chairs had seen better days, but they’d be sturdy enough for any guests. Not that anyone came to see them now that her papa’s health had faded.

Rumors swept through the other crafter’s children of evil magic tinting the kingdom. They said the new high lord had a demon servant whose skin ran red with the blood of human sacrifices. Some even said the blood had seeped into his being, leaving a constant glow of an unholy tattoo that flowed through him. A curse from the gods, no doubt.

Except the rumors were silly. Holy Aeduhm and His divine children protected the Laisian Empire in return for the devotion old Emperor Laisia had shown. That’s what temple taught her, and her papa had never contradicted it. Niamsha’s gaze drifted to the alcove hidden behind her mother’s shelves. The books she’d once placed there had slowly vanished over the months of her papa’s illness, the value too high to let sit untouched while Niamsha and Emrys starved. But the salves had stayed, masking the small table where Niamsha’s mother used to pray to the foreign gods of the homeland she’d loved. If Aeduhm protected the empire because of the old emperor’s devotion, then what did He think of a loyal family hiding the heretical shrine of a long-dead woman?

Niamsha stepped over the the shelves, dust thick on the aging wood as well as the table and figures behind. She should throw them out and beg forgiveness from the divine Father and His children. But her mother’s cheerful humming lingered in her memory, stopping her hand before she touched the figures. She closed her eyes and muttered a prayer to Aeduhm. Even He couldn’t save her papa now, anyway. No need to discard the last thing left of her mother in such a futile effort.

She pulled the back door open instead, walking out into the bare patch of garden where her brother played. Emrys sat in the dirt, drawing crude pictures with a stick. A few months ago he’d been running wild through the streets with the other glasswright’s sons, his paler tan skin blending better with the locals than her darker tones did. But even those children they’d called friends wouldn’t risk coming near for fear her papa’s illness might spread.

“Em, Papa wants ya,” she said.

Emrys rose with a shrug, his shoulders hunched in the way of a child who knows he’s about to be scolded. A look he’d been wearing since their papa had first closed the shop to the sickness. Niamsha caught Emrys’s arm as he passed.

“It’s gonna be okay, Em.” She squeezed once, releasing him as he pulled away. “Papa’s sick, but you an’ me. We’ll make do.”

“With what?”

Emrys stepped inside without waiting for her answer. And what answer could she give? They had one apprenticeship’s worth of coin, almost a full gold jayl in value, but when their papa died the deeds for house and shop would go to the guild. No heirs of age to take possession unless he could hold out another ten months for Niamsha’s birthing day. Under the guild’s new rules they didn’t even have to pay fair value in trade. A response to the high lord’s new regulations, her papa said.

Niamsha sighed, leaning against the wall and swishing the worn skirts of her dress around her legs. Her friend’s mother made it for her near two years back, when they’d gone together to a formal gathering of the glasswright’s guild. The dress hung too short now, after two years of growing, and only Niamsha’s too-skinny frame let her fit into it at all. But it was still the nicest dress she owned and the only clothes she could wear to temple without disgracing her family. Temple might be the only chance for her and Emrys to get help. The new high lord had ordered charity for the poor, handed out by acolytes to those most in need. He must have known the temples would choose their favorites among the needy, but Niamsha had connections there. Her papa had paid a small fortune for her to get schooling—three or four times the apprentice fees he’d gathered now. Enough money, her papa had hoped, to overcome the hostility imperial natives felt for those with foreign blood. And not enough to buy her security among the chosen servants of the merchant god Istvan.

With a shove against the rough wall behind her, Niamsha stepped away from her home and strode to the gate, stepping between the small patches of dirt that had held her mother’s garden years before. She pushed the gate wide, glancing down the narrow alley in a habitual search for the poorer customers who used to buy trinkets of scrap glass to set beside a candle flame for a brighter burn. Save on candles by throwing the light, and her papa had always sold the scraps too cheap for their value. Said the low had to help each other or be stepped on. But no one dared linger near their house any longer, and there’d been no scrap to sell even if they did.

The unmistakable chime of her papa’s door bell rang out the back door behind her. Niamsha hesitated. Her papa wasn’t working and Emrys was old enough to send whoever it was away. She counted her breaths, waiting for the repeated jingle that would mark another customer lost to the illness that plagued the house. If she turned back, asked what commission the customer needed… She couldn’t work glass like her papa or any other glasswright, really. Even the apprentices had more practice that she did. But Niamsha knew a few of the techniques her papa hid from his fellows. A simple commission for reduced price might pay for another visit to the physic.

Twelve breaths, heart pounding as she debated the choice, and she heard voices drifting out of the shop. Not Emrys. He should have handled it. Should have looked after their papa. But Niamsha knew her papa’s thick voice even through the weakened breaths that left him wheezing. She hurried toward the door. Her papa should be in bed.

The back door swung open at her touch, the conversation barely audible from the workshop. He’d walked so far? Niamsha turned toward the open doorway, the form of her papa’s visitor hidden and voices muffled. Emrys caught her arm.

“Father said wait,” he whispered. “Something ’bout an old pact.”

“You knew better, Em,” Niamsha snapped. “Papa ain’t up to handlin’ nothing. What you think he’s gonna do if they ask fer work, or a favor?”

“But…”

She pulled away, storming to the doorway, and froze at the hushed tones of her papa’s voice. His back was turned to her but the hunch of his shoulders held as much deceit as weakness.

“Ya know I can’t pay,” her papa said. “What ya plannin’ ta take? Me last bits a scrap?”

“Master says ya got something he wants,” the other man replied. “Debts get paid, one way or t’other.”

“Ain’t got nothing. Tell yer master—”

The door bell chimed again and the heavy clunk of boots entered from the street. The men fell silent, Niamsha’s papa wheezing against the strain of standing so long while waiting for the newcomer to say or do something. Niamsha peeked around the corner, but all she could see was the bulky form of the first arrival and the narrow form of someone else behind, neither offering any consideration for her papa. Swallowing a lump of tension, Niamsha edged further into the room for a better view.

“Master Trieu, I’m pleased to see you standing,” the newcomer said, her papa’s family name rolling off his tongue like a fancy flag waving in the wind.

His voice was smooth as the water in a new-drawn bath, pitched too high for any man she’d known. Niamsha’s papa nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. Why wouldn’t he say anything? Even her papa’s stubborn dedication to his craft had faded by now.

The slight figure nudged the larger man. “Our friend looks a bit under the weather. Do get him a chair. Debts can’t be paid by dead men, now can they?”

“Aye.” The larger man took two steps to one side and grabbed her papa’s work stool, swinging it over to her papa’s side. “Sit.”

Her papa hesitated, glanced toward the doorway into their house, and sat. His face gave no sign he’d seen Niamsha, but he must know she was listening. Her papa hadn’t hidden anything from her since her mother died.

“I can pay,” her papa said, turning back to the men. A lie he’d just contradicted, but they waited for him to continue. “Me shop. Worth half the sum at least. An’ me girl ain’t takin’ to the glass, so I got her ’pprentice fees.”

Niamsha clapped a hand to her mouth, muffling the sharp gasp of breath his words drew. Give away the shop and the last of their coin? How would they live?

“The shop seems excessive,” the slim figure said. “How would you earn the rest of my due? Hand over the coin, and I’ll offer an adjustment. Take some time to recover. No further payment due this season. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement once you’ve recovered.”

Her papa nodded and pushed himself to his feet. The other man stopped him, pushing her papa back onto the stool before crossing the room to dig out her papa’s strongbox. Hidden where no one ought to find it, but this man pulled it out as if Niamsha’s papa had left it on the table in plain view. They knew the shop, then, and had no need to speak to her papa if they planned to steal. Niamsha’s heart thudded in her chest as the man dug through and pulled out the handful of coins to count.

“Three cails short fer ’pprentice fees,” the man announced.

“Shorting me silver, are you, Master Trieu?”

Niamsha’s papa turned in his seat, lips parting in shock. “Can’t be. I put it there safe. She’s got full fees just waitin’.”

The smaller figure stepped forward, just into the edge of the light to scan the room. He looked almost a boy, barely grown into his shape as his eyes fixed on Niamsha’s hiding spot. He smiled.

“I imagine your daughter helped herself, Master Trieu,” he said. “You’re so very ill, she must have feared for you.” He waved at his companion and turned away. “Come on, then. We’ll take it. I’m not one to punish a child for loving a parent.”

Niamsha waited until they’d both left the shop before darting out of her corner to grab her papa’s arm.

“Papa, are you—”

“What’ve ya done?”

He muttered the question under his breath, clearly not expecting an answer. Niamsha frowned, kneeling on the cool stone of the workshop floor.

“Physic said ya needed a new dose. Old one ain’t working. What should I done?”

Her papa shook his head. “Don’t matter now. Ya gotta go. Get Emrys, pack yer clothes, get gone.”

“But papa, who’s gonna take care of you?”

“Nothing left ta care for,” He caught her face in his hands, his worn body trembling. “Go. Take nothing from no one. Can’t know who to trust. An’ don’t tell no one my name no more. Yer mother’s. She always said ta give ya hers fer the bloodline. Use it, find yer brother a safe place.”

“I can’t, papa.” Niamsha shook her head. “How’m I gonna keep us fed?”

“Yer smart. Find a way. Take care of yer brother. You promise me.”

The words stuck in her throat. But he’d never asked her for anything like this, and she’d never seen him so frightened. Whoever that boy was, he had power her papa feared.

“I promise, papa.” Niamsha swallowed a lump, squeezing his hands as she stood up. “I’ll take care of Em.”

With a nod, her papa shoved her toward the doorway into the main house. A fit of coughing took over as he leaned against the stool, hands on knees. But he waved her away as she hesitated. Nothing she could do would help him now. But the new high lord might be able to help her. Word on the street was he fancied himself a man of the people. Her father’s words stuck with her. Trust no one, take nothing, and protect Emrys. She’d only promised to protect Emrys.

Niamsha choked back a sob a grief and walked into the other room. “Come on, Em. Papa says we gotta go.”

For more original fiction, check out these posts:

• Taking Flight
• Lady Saylina
• Free Reign
• Fresh Heir

For some thoughts on publishing and writing, check out these posts:

• Trad Pub: If you’re going to debut in epic fantasy, you better be the exception
• On Discovery Writing
• Indie Pub vs. Trad Pub
• Born Novelist