A Little Fate by Nora Roberts

soldiers, to have them take the castle from the inside. If Lorcan hadn’t found it and destroyed it.
    But when she opened the door, she felt the air stir. Taking the candle stub, she lit the wick and let its wavery light guide her down the rough steps.
    She could hear the roar of the sea, and though she was tempted to take that channel, just to stand by the water, to breathe it in, she turned toward the second path.
    She would have Gwayne bring the men through the forest, split into companies. Some to take the walls, others to take the tunnels. Attack the walls first, she calculated, drawing Lorcan’s forces there while the second wave came in from under—and behind.
    Before he could turn and brace for the second assault, they would run him over. And it would be done.
    She prayed that it could be done, and that she would not be sending good men to their deaths for nothing.
    She moved slowly through the dark. The low ceiling made it impossible to stand upright, and she could imagine the strain of a man making the same trek in full armor.
    And it would be done not after a night of feasting and dancing but after a hard march from the hills, through the forest, with the knowledge that death could wait at the end of the journey.
    She was asking this of her people, and asking that they trust the fates that she would be worthy of their sacrifice. That she would be a worthy queen.
    She stopped, bracing her back against the wall of stone and dirt as her heart ached. She would wish with every ounce of her blood that it was not so. That she was only an ordinary woman and could leap onto her horse and ride with the Travelers again, as she had always done. She would wish that she could hunt and laugh, love a man and bear his children. Live a life that she understood.
    But to wish it was to wish against the fates, to diminish the sacrifices her parents had made, and to turn her back onthose who prayed for the True One to come and bring them back into light.
    So she lifted her candle again and headed down the tunnel to plot out her strategy.
    When she heard the clash of steel, she drew her own sword. Snuffing out the candle, she set it down and moved soft as a cat toward the narrow opening.
    She could see them battling in the moonlight, the young man and the old. And neither noticed as she boosted herself out of the tunnel and crouched on the floor of the forest.

5
    H ERE was her wolf, and she thrilled to see him.
    He fought with an icy focus and relentless strength that Aurora admired and respected—and envied. The skill, yes, the skill of a warrior was there, but it was enhanced by that cold-blooded, cold-eyed style that told her he would accept death or mete it out with equal dispatch.
    The faerie was old, it was true, but a faerie nonetheless. Such creatures were not vanquished easily.
    She could see the sweat of effort gleaming on Thane’s face, and how it dampened his shirt. And she saw the blood that seeped onto the cloth from the wounds on his back, still fresh from a lashing.
    How could a man wield a sword with such great talent and allow himself to be flogged?
    And why had he watched the feasting through the spy hole? It was his gaze she had sensed on her. And his essence she had sensed there. His, and that of the old graybeard he battled now.
    Even as she puzzled it over, two columns of smoke spiraled on either side of Thane. And became armed warriors.He blocked the sword of the one on his right and spun away from the sword of the one on his left as it whizzed through the air.
    Raising her own, Aurora leapt. She cleaved her blade through one of the warriors and vanished it back to smoke. “Foul play, old one.” She pivoted, and would have struck Kern down if Thane hadn’t crossed swords with her.
    â€œAt your back,” she snapped out, but the warrior was smoke again with a wave of Kern’s hand.
    â€œLady,” the faerie said with an undeniable chuckle, “you mistake us. I only help