Page 101 of Heartbreak Prince

“There was no point in trying to get through the gate in disguise,” Vawn says. “As I told you, the guards check for disguises, both magical and otherwise. Other than licensed merchants, very few people cross into Tularesk, and those who do typically have a permit or a letter from a relative. We have none of those things, only my status as a royal with diplomatic privileges.”

“Dicklomatic privileges,” I mutter.

“You’re fond of that word today.”

“Only because you’re being one.”

“Enough,” groans Severin. “You two make me weary. Why don’t you put your fingers inside her again, Highness? She seemed to like that.”

“She likes my tongue better. Unfortunately we have no time for such pleasant activities. There is the wall, just ahead. By the fates, I’m nervous. Are you nervous, Syth?”

“Of course I’m fucking nervous. Stay behind me, keep your head down, and get ready to activate your shield. I wish you’d worn that helmet Lord Kaenan offered.”

“It looked stupid. At least I took the breastplate and the leathers.”

“Thank the fates for small mercies.”

Three of the riders beneath us urge their horses into a gallop, breaking away from the rest of the group. It’s their job to announce the prince’s approach at the border gate, in the hopes that he will be allowed to pass without incident.

Lord Kaenan wanted to send messengers ahead even earlier to alert the border guard. He thought perhaps it would spur loyal soldiers to action and inspire them to protect their prince. But his wife countered that it would provide the same alert for our enemies, giving them more time to gather and prepare.

The Exemplar’s spies and assassins know that Vawn is heading for Tularesk; it’s the only logical reason for him to be this far north. The attack on Anyssir Castle proves they’re back on our trail, and the fact that they already turned General Centune worries me more than I like to admit. There are five border gates along the expanse of the Belavrin wall, and we have purposely chosen one that is not on a direct line from Anyssir Castle to the Celestial Seat. We went farther west, to a gate that is somewhat out of the way. Hopefully most of the Exemplar’s forces will have amassed near the two gates that are nearest to Anyssir Castle, and fewer of them will be lying in wait for us here.

Vawn peeks around me. “I don’t see any wyverns.”

With a singing whistle, an arrow streaks past his head. More arrows fly toward the three advancing riders, and one of them falls from his saddle.

“Evasive flight!” I call to Severin. “Vawn, hang onto me and activate your first shield glyph.”

“Not yet,” he counters. “I’m going to wait until things get worse.”

At that moment, a dozen wyverns rise from behind the wall, mounting into the sky like great vultures with spotted wings. I’ve always hated the look of wyvern wings, how they’re covered with splotchy circles in shades of green, taupe, yellow, or rusty red, like a diseased rash. I don’t like the way their snouts are shaped, either. They always look as if they’re smiling cruelly, and yet their eyes are dead, utterly void of emotion. Mindless and mirthless.

At least they can’t breathe fire like the dragons of my father’s old stories.

More arrows arc toward us, and Severin cries, “Hang on,” while he dives and swerves to evade them. Vawn grips my belt to steady himself, keeping his other hand ready to trigger his protective glyph.

The wyverns remain in midair, wings beating, while the archers on the wall and our archers on horseback exchange a hail of arrows. The two advance riders are galloping full out—they have nearly reached the gate. By now they will be shouting their message, announcing Vawn Molloi, King of Belavrin. Let the gate be opened and the way be cleared for him to pass.

Eight of the wyverns glide forward, squalling as their mighty wings beat the air.

But the remaining four wyverns rise higher and dive in front of the others, jaws snapping as they block the first eight from approaching us. The arrows whirring past the carpet are sporadic now, as if the archers’ attention has been diverted. It looks as if people are fighting each other along the wall—the loyalists against those who serve the Exemplar. These soldiers have been guarding the border side by side, and now, in a moment, they’ve been revealed as each other’s enemies.

The gate is still closed, and the riders who reached it first are battling some of the guards. It doesn’t look as if we’ll be allowed to pass that way, so we’ll have to take the more dangerous route, over the wall.

Just as I make the decision, three magic carpets emerge from a clump of trees and streak toward us. Severin veers away from them, but these are military-grade carpets, fast and nimble. The soldiers on their backs wear Redeemer helmets.

As the first one nears us, I yell to Vawn. “Grab one of the handles and hold me steady!”

He locks an arm around my waist and grips one of Severin’s handles. I open my pouch of throwing stars, snatch one out, and let it fly. It’s a test, just so I can gauge how the wind of our speed will affect my aim. After watching its arc, I activate glyphs for accuracy and agility.

The first helmeted rider has fastened himself to his carpet, and he rises on his knees, drawing a bow.

I make my second throw, and one spiked arm of the star lodges in the Redeemer’s helmet, right where his eye should be. It must interfere with his vision somehow, because he falters, lowering his bow slightly. I follow up with another star, which pierces his left hand.

A muffled scream rips through the helmet, but the next second he’s dipping two fingernails in his own blood, activating glyphs.

“Faster!” I scream. “Vawn, get down!”