Never After

He rolled over with a sigh, resting his head in her lap. “When people hear there is a warlord passing through, they tend to get rather defensive. Pitchforks, ca

“They hide their daughters.”

He smiled, reaching up to brush his thumb over her mouth. “That, too. But you find the most interesting people when you’re a nobody.”

Sally kissed his thumb. “And the names? The reputation?”

Mickel closed his eyes. “My people are decent fighters. Really very good. You couldn’t find better archers or horsemen anywhere. But that doesn’t mean we want to fight, or should have to. So we lie when we can. Dress men and women in rabbit’s blood and torn clothes, rub soot in their faces, and then send them off into the night blubbering senselessly about this magnificent warlord who rode in on a fire-breathing black steed and set about ravaging, pillaging, murdering, and so forth, until everyone is so worked up and piddling themselves that all it takes to win the battle is the distant beating of some drums, and the bloodcurdling cries of my barbarian horde.”

He opened his eyes. “You should hear Rumble scream. It gives me nightmares.”

“That can’t work all the time.”

“But it works enough. Enough for peace.” Mickel hesitated, giving her an uncertain look. “You ran from the man you thought I was. You were so desperate not to marry me, you were willing to enter the Tangleroot.”

“And you agreed to marry a woman sight unseen.” Sally frowned. “You seem like too much a free spirit for that.”

“Our mothers were best friends. Growing up, all I ever heard about was Melisande and how brave she was, how good, how kind. How, when there was trouble, she was always the fighter, protecting my mother. And vice versa.” He reached beneath his leather armor and pulled out a pendant that was an exact mirror of her own. “I never knew. I never imagined. She was devastated when she learned of Melisande’s death. I think it hastened her own.”

“I’m sorry,” Sally said.

He tilted his shoulder in a faint shrug. “She told me that Melisande had borne a daughter, and that one day… one day she would like for us to meet. And so when your father advertised the fact that he was looking for a husband for his daughter—”

“Advertised,” she interrupted.

“Oh, yes. Far and wide. Princess. Beautiful. Nubile. Available to big strong man, with even bigger sword.” Mickel thumped his chest. “I was intrigued. I was mortified. I thought I would save the daughter of my mother’s best friend from a fate worse than death.”

“And if I had been a loud mouthed harridan with a taste for garlic and a fear of bathing?”

“I would have been the Warlord everyone thinks I am, tossed her aside like a sack of potatoes in a white wedding dress, and asked for the hand of a peculiar redheaded woman I met on the road.”

Sally smiled. “And if she said no?”

“Well,” Mickel said, kissing her hand. “I may not be the Warlord of the Savage Belly Ache, but I am exceptionally brave. I would fight for her. I would battle magic forests and sleeping queens for her. I would plunge into icy waters—”

“—and be rescued by her?”

“Oh, yes,” he whispered, no longer smiling. “I would love to be rescued by such a fair and lovely lady. Every day, every morning, every moment of my life.”

Sally’s breath caught, and Mickel touched the back of her neck and pulled her close. “You, Princess, are far more dangerous than any Warlord of Raven’s Teeth, or Ravisher of Dandelions.” Again, uncertainty filled his eyes. “But do you still want me, knowing all this?”

“I never wanted a warlord,” Sally said. “But you… I think you’ll do just fine. If you don’t mind having a witch as your bride.”

“Queen Magic and Warlord Illusion,” he whispered, and leaned in to kiss her.

Sally placed her hand over his mouth. “But I want another name.”

Mickel blinked. “Another?”

She removed her hand and gri

Mickel laughed quietly. “And what will I call you? War Lady? My Princess of Pain?”

“Just call me yours,” she whispered. “The rest will take care of itself.”

And it did.

The Wrong Bridegroom

SHARON SHINN

1

The Beautiful Princess

This was the proclamation sent out to all corners of the land: I, King Reginald, have decreed that I will wed my daughter, Olivia, to the man who passes three tests that prove he is brave, strong, and clever. All men are invited to Kallenore Castle to compete for the very fairest prize.

Sounds romantic, doesn’t it? I thought so at first, until I started appraising some of my suitors. They didn’t arrive armed only with weapons, courage, and intelligence. A good number of them also brought lust, greed, ambition, and a few other unsavory traits. For Kallenore was a lush and prosperous land, and I was my father’s only child—and people have been telling me since the day I was born that I’m beautiful. I have to admit I secretly believe it’s true. My hair is black, my eyes are blue, and my skin has been free of those appalling blemishes for four years.

After the first round of competition—a standard if very energetic joust—eliminated more than half of the contestants, I began to think seriously about what it would mean to be married off to someone I didn’t know and might not like. I was particularly worried about two of the combatants who had survived the rounds of fighting. One was a large, brutish man who looked like he could tear apart the palace’s foundation stones with his thumb and forefinger. He had bulging eyes, greasy hair, and a beard that might not have been trimmed since the day it first started to show. I comforted myself with the thought that he didn’t look bright enough to pass the test that relied on brains.

But the second contestant who caught my eye most assuredly was that intelligent, and I didn’t want to marry him, either. In fact, my refusal to be betrothed to Sir Harwin Brenley of Brenley Estates was what had precipitated this whole not so-romantic-after-all competition in the first place.

I had known Harwin my whole life. His father, Sir Milton, was the most significant property owner in the kingdom, a lord who by turns was my father’s greatest ally and chief adversary. The day I was born, our parents decided that Harwin and I should marry. Harwin had never seemed as horrified at the idea as I had.

Well, he wouldn’t. He was too dull to whip up an emotion like horror. He was placid and stolid and measured and practically bovine in his level of insensate calm. He could be quite stubborn in failing to yield a point or change his mind, but he never argued; he never shouted or threw things or stalked from the room spitting curses. He wasn’t, I suppose, hideously unattractive, for he was tall, and athletic enough to acquit himself on a jousting field, and his face didn’t have any scars or squints or disproportionate features. He just was—this big, solid, boring clump of a human being.

I mean, I couldn’t possibly marry him.

What if he passed all three of my father’s tests?>

I would run away. I would. My father couldn’t make me marry someone against my will.

My father had never been able to make me do anything I didn’t want to do. Which was probably the reason he detested me as much as I detested him.

There was a knock on the door, which I ignored, but the person in the hallway came inside anyway. I glared at her. I usually went to some trouble to avoid spending any time with my stepmother, Gisele, more out of principle than because of any active dislike. Well, she was only five years older than I was, small and dainty and well behaved. Her dark brown hair always lay sleek against her cheeks; her black eyes were always watchful. She made me look like a big galumphy girl when I stood beside her, and even when she wasn’t criticizing me out loud, her expression was generally reproving. And she had married my father, which I couldn’t imagine any woman of sense wanting to do. Ever since she had moved into the palace three years ago, I had refused to respond to any of her attempts to win me over. She had mostly given up trying.