Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(89)

There were also two sets of what looked like a court uniform—fine dress breeches and a long coat complete with braid and glitterbits, the empress’s siren insignia on the back. Plus four sets of smallclothes. The boots appeared to have been made to match the boots Lyss was wearing when she was taken captive.

Gesturing, Lara directed her to try the clothes on, to make sure of the fit. They fit perfectly—even the boots fit reasonably well. Lara demonstrated how the head wrap could be worn as a loose cowl or drawn across her face, exposing only her eyes. When Lyss looked in the glass, she saw just another Carthian warrior.

Well, then.

Lyss smiled at Lara. “Perfect,” she said, making a turn so the seamstress could see all sides.

Lara smiled back, curtsied, and left.

Lyss sat on the low bed, her mind tumbling from one bad possibility to the next. It seemed that the empress meant to keep her around for a while. That could be good news or bad. She’d heard that the empress somehow turned her captives into mages and forced them to fight for her. Was that what she intended for Lyss?

Lyss could not let that happen, but she couldn’t think of how she could avoid it, short of tying strips of sheet together and hanging herself. But she was her mother’s sole living heir. Worse, it would mean the end of the Alister line—the line that had survived more than a thousand years against all odds. It was as if she heard her father’s voice in her head. Stay alive.

No. She would not be the last of the Alisters. She would not.

Lyss walked out onto the terrace and looked down at the ocean below. The marble wall of the palace above and below the terrace was smooth, seamless, impossible to climb. Even if she had a rope, the only place she could possibly go was into the water. The familiar tide of panic rose in her, threatening to drown her before she ever got wet. The empress couldn’t have chosen a better barrier to prevent her escape.

She should have spent more time with her father and Cat Tyburn, learning how to get in and out of tight places. But who knew she would end up a princess held captive in a marble tower?

There came a soft knock on the door. “Come!” she said, and Breon sloped in, his face a thundercloud. He wore new clothes, as well—only his were velvet and satin, sparkling with jewels. His narrow breeches and fitted jacket showed off the fact that he was filling in nicely. His hair was the color of rich caramel. It had been cut, but the single gold streak had been left longer than the rest. It was braided, and it glittered in the sunlight that streamed in from the terrace. He would have been beautiful, all on his own, even with a scowl on his face. In this garb, he was dazzling.

They looked at each other—Lyss in her uniform, and Breon in his finery.

“Well,” Lyss said, “it looks to me like the empress has very different roles in mind for the two of us. She must be intending to keep us alive a little longer.”

“She brought four sets in different colors—each finer than the last one.” Breon brushed at the velvet, his fingers leaving little tracks. “This is the plainest of the lot.”

Lyss tried to think of something to say. “You look spectacular, Breon,” she said. “Those suit you—you’re someone who makes the most of them.”

She’d thought she was giving him a compliment, but he didn’t take it that way. “I an’t a fancy,” Breon muttered. He stripped off the jacket, wadded it up, and threw it in the corner. “Everybody keeps trying to make me into something I’m not, just because I’m pretty.” He pressed his fingers against his face as if he might somehow rearrange it.

“So . . . you’re thinking that the empress means to . . . ?” Lyss swallowed, sorry that she had gotten into the middle of that question without planning how to end it.

“Why else would she give me these clothes? Your clothes aren’t like that. Put a curved blade at your belt and sling a bow over your shoulder, and you’d be a Carthian horselord.”

Lyss looked down at her breeches and overshirt. Then looked up at Breon. “Listen,” she said, “I have no way of knowing what the empress is thinking. I don’t know what she has planned for me. But there are people in this world who wear clothes like yours every single day, and they’re not fancies. The nobility, for instance.”

“Not where I come from,” Breon growled. “This reminds me of the night you and I met—when Whacks gave me some pretty new clothes so I could do something I’ve been sorry for ever since. I don’t want to go down that road again. I’d rather wear rags. If she doesn’t mean me to be a fancy, maybe she wants to use me to lure people into trouble.”

“My father always told me to try not to worry about things I can’t do anything about,” Lyss said.

“Easier said than done. Every plan begins with worry.”

They came for Breon first. A brace of imperial guards showed up and ordered him to come with them, saying that the empress wanted to see him. He looked fragile next to the bulky guards, his face pale, his eyes wide with fright.

“Wait!” Lyss commanded. To her surprise, they stopped, and turned back toward her. She embraced Breon, murmuring, “See you soon,” in his ear.

But she did not see him soon. Hours passed, and dinner came and went, and he did not return. Finally, she crossed through their common area and knocked on his door. No answer. She pushed the door open. “Breon?”