Harbinger by Philippa Ballantine

joys of this realm, and he would not give them up. For now, he would watch the stars, and muse on what might lie ahead.
* * *
    The morning sun woke Raed with a start. He was naked, lying on a rock, looking up as clouds skidded across the sky. He shuddered with the chill and, wrapping his arms around himself, sat up. Unfortunately, he had a lot of experience waking in such situations, and now, as in every other time, he felt terrible. The blinding pain behind his eyes and the deep aches in muscle and bone were a particularly favored gift of the Rossin. Reflexively he checked himself over, and was surprised and delighted that he was not covered in blood. It felt damn good to have a mouth that didn’t taste like iron and guilt.
    As Raed stood up, however, his heart slammed into his throat; not two feet from him lay a bundle. The Young Pretender frowned and cautiously padded over to it.
    “Curious,” he whispered, even as a deep shudder ran through him. This rock was definitely cold and exposed. He was used to waking up aching and miserable, but the Rossin had never left him a gift.
    Carefully, he leaned down and examined it before opening it. It was a large piece of fur, wrapped in red string. After he had checked from all angles, he took a chance, unraveled the fur and spread it on the rock.
    It was a thing of great beauty. The sunlight gleamed on the tips of the strange silver fur, and Raed leaned forward to run his hands through it. It had to do with the Rossin, of that he was sure. Despite that, the Young Pretender scooped it up and wrapped it around his shoulders. Instantly warmth enveloped him. He wanted to throw it away because he was sure that there was more to this gift than it appeared. Yet, it was protecting him. The Young Pretender was caught in the middle. The pelt was seducing him, a deep part of his being understood that but could not fight it.
    Still Raed turned back toward the citadel, and began walking, clutching the warmth and softness of the pelt to himself. Hopefully somewhere along the way he would find his clothes.
    That search however was going to be nothing compared to having to explain to Sorcha where he had been. She was bound to have felt the Rossin appear, and was certain to have questions. Those he feared facing, because at this stage he really didn’t have any answers.

FOUR
A Blown Leaf
    In the wake of the attack, there was no time to even take a breath. Zofiya stood in the doorway watching Sorcha and Merrick talking quietly to each other while the smell of death was ventilated from the room. Something had just happened, something that shook them to the core, but she found herself hesitant to interrupt.
    While she helped clear the debris out of the Great Hall, stepping over pools of scarlet blood, a lay Brother appeared at her elbow. He was tall, thin and pale faced, but his hand was not trembling as he passed a roll of paper to her. “Imperial Highness,” he said, and she managed not to flinch at the use of her title, “you asked if we could find any news of your brother’s activities to the north. We have been able to secure this.”
    Zofiya’s hand clenched on the scrap, but she managed to remain calm. “Where is this information from? Can we trust it?”
    “Indeed yes! It is from a lay Brother who escaped a Priory to the north of Vermillion.” The young Brother dropped his eyes. “Like many others he managed to get out with a weirstone and has been sending in what reports he can.”
    “Thank you,” she managed, while her eyes darted over the short message. It felt like ice water flooded through her veins. What she read there made up her mind immediately—she had to get out of the citadel.
    Without a word to anyone, she spun on her heel and made her way back to the room she shared with Merrick.
    In the city of Vermillion, she’d slept on a bed carved like a boat and had whatever material possessions she had wanted. In the citadel, they had a narrow camp bed with a thin blanket