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SAVIAR RA-KHIRSSON TOOK the castle stairs two at a time, rushing past servants and guardsmen, a sword on each hip. Strawberry-blond hair, still wet from his bath, streamed wildly around his young features. He had doffed his blood-soaked battle clothes for a fresh tunic and breeks, had slept off the exhaustion of a hard-fought war, and finally felt clean enough to face his darling.
In his haste, Saviar nearly skidded into two Béarnian guardsmen who stood, spears crossed, in front of Chymmerlee’s door. To their credit, they remained firmly in place despite the muscular Renshai careening toward them, their expressions grim. Both wore standard blue and gold, with the rearing bear symbol of the high kingdom on their tabards. Saviar thought he saw a hint of fear in one’s deep brown eyes.

An instant before collision, Saviar rescued himself with an agile sidestep. “Sorry,” he said, smiling to put them at ease. “I just came to see Chymmerlee.”

“We’re under orders,” the larger one said. “You cannot enter.”

Saviar accepted the formality easily. As the son of a Knight of Erythane, he had become accustomed to much more extensive and oppressive decorum. Only the Knights knew how to turn even the most marvelous feast into tedium. “Tell her it’s Saviar. She’ll see me.”

“Begging your pardon.” Though smaller than his fellow, the other guard still had greater mass than Saviar and the majority of men in the Westlands. Most Béarnides did. “But you, specifically, cannot enter.”

“Me? Specifically?” The words caught Saviar completely off his guard. The united armies of the continent had just won a massive war, in no small part because of Chymmerlee’s magic and his own sword arm. She had doted on him since the moment his twin had led her to him, comatose, blood poisoned by a festering wound. She had saved his life and nursed him through his recovery. Later, they had held hands, laughed together, even kissed. She alone of her people had accompanied them to the war, the only mage who had assisted in a battle of epic proportions. It made no sense for Chymmerlee to turn her back on him now. “You must be mistaken. Can you please just tell her I’m here? She’ll see me.”

The Béarnides glanced at one another, the somberness of their expressions never changing. Their spears remained in place. The first speaker cleared his throat. “There is no reason to ask. It is by Chymmerlee’s own orders that we are barring you . . . and your twin.”