Everna did not go to the Guard post. Instead, she made for the east gate, beyond which lay the town’s graveyard and, from there to the Slipsunder River. Hardly more than a mile wide, it bowed around the subtle elevations of the plains. In the heart of the rainy season, it reached a depth of just over ten feet in the central channel, if that.

Beyond fertile soils, the river provided the town with a wealth of fish and clams throughout the year. When winter arrived, hunters took to the boats with their bows and retrievers to catch the waterfowl that migrated from the northern parts of the kingdom. This year provided a very different scene.

A handful of shoddy docks jutted from the shoreline, dinghies moored to their crooked pylons frozen stiff in their berths. Everna picked her way across the boards, which bent and groaned beneath her weight, and stopped at the end of the longest dock. A thin layer of ice blanketed the river, though if she looked closely enough, she could pick out the currents running beneath.

It was an odd sight. In the twenty-some years she lived in Pendel, she’d never seen the river frozen nor heard it so quiet. There were no hunters searching for ducks or fishermen hauling nets. The shallows she once shuffled along digging for basket clams were barren and icy, the sandy shoreline white with snow.

Despite the unnatural silence, she settled on the edge of the dock and allowed her feet to dangle over the edge. The toes of her boots grazed the ice, leaving a thin trail of disturbed frost in their wake. In the summer, she’d take her boots off and let her toes dip into the water — but never too far. The last time she’d dipped her whole foot in, a large catfish decided her toe looked enough like food to take a bite.

“Let me guess,” Wil asked, “you come out here to think? You women always have some hidden lake or river you always go to.”

Everna snorted. “No, I go sit in my room and read. I came out here because I’d hoped the river wasn’t a giant slab of ice, and because this would be the last place my parents would think to look.”

She’d always found running water soothing and, more than ever, she needed the reprieve. The last week had been one thing after another, and if she considered the month before that, she’d hardly had a moment to herself. Someone was always hovering over her shoulder or lingering just around the corner. If it wasn’t Wil, it was Leah or Lisette. After they returned from Windhollow, Cedric picked up the torch as well.

While she would have the comfort of her own bed once again, it wouldn’t be much different back home. Her parents always smothered her, but now that they had a reason to, it’d be worse than ever. She’d count herself fortunate if her door was still on its hinges when she returned. They’d check on her every second of the day, and not just to be sure Shroud hadn’t gotten past them.

If Wil hadn’t come with her, her father would’ve followed her out the door. He still might if she were gone too long. Only the gods knew what sort of ridiculous ideas were floating around his head at the moment.

If Wil wasn’t a prince, he’d have probably hauled him back into the tavern by his neck and sent Lisette with her instead.

“You know, if you’d told me who you were from the start, I’d have been a little more cooperative,” she said after several moments of blissful silence.

“You’d have believed it?”

“I had my suspicions you weren’t of average status,” she admitted. “I could tell by the way you speak. Though I don’t quite get the need for secrecy.”

After a long silence, he said, “Being royalty, especially with the current state of the kingdom, doesn’t help as much as you’d expect. Shroud’s not the only thing I have to worry about, and secrecy isn’t so much of a choice as it is a necessity.”

“How far up in the line are you?”

It was hard to say. From what little Everna read on the subject, she knew it was as difficult to place the age of half-elf as it was a full-blooded elf. After a certain point, they ceased aging. Andryll, though three-hundred winters, hardly looked a day over twenty. Wil didn’t look much older.

He most likely wasn’t. King Keeland’s eldest sons should be twenty-seven now, and assuming he had no other children to account for, the youngest was a princess. Her eighteenth birthday passed during the summer. Wil couldn’t be more than three years older than her.

“Far enough that it causes problems,” he said after a moment. She felt the dock shift as he leaned against the pylon beside her. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t, and to be honest, I couldn’t care less. You’re not the first prince I’ve met, and I can only thank the gods you’re nothing like Marcas. I’d have rather been hanged than put up with that wretch.”

Wil raised a brow. “What’d he do?”

Everna slammed her fist against the dock. “Let’s just say if I ever get my hands on that slimy bastard, I’ll wring that obscenely long neck of his and gladly walk myself to the gallows.” She sighed then and shook out her hand. “Can we talk about something else? Preferably nothing to do with Shroud, the Courts, and anything else mildly infuriating?”

Wil looked as if he wanted to press the matter, but seemed to think better of it. Several moments of awkward silence stretched between them. She chanced a glance at Wil and found him struggling, his brow creased with thought. Conversation, she’d noticed, wasn’t his forte. Aside from the occasional jab and their bickering during their sparring sessions, he said little that was unrelated to her plight.

Everna had several questions, but none of them seemed appropriate. Did the king really die of a heart-stop or was he assassinated as the rumors claimed? Which of the princes instigated the disastrous assassination attempt that put the steward on the throne? Why in Iridia was a prince slinking around like a sneak-thief? And how does a prince end up in Shadowguard to begin with?

Instead, she settled for what she hoped was the least offensive question she could ask.

“Wil isn’t your name, is it?”

It took him a moment to respond.

“No.”

Her next question bounced on the tip of her tongue, but she thought better of it. If he wanted it known, he wouldn’t be using an alias.

“Why that one then, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“If you’re hoping there’s some kind of story behind it, it’s not that deep,” he said after a moment. “It was the alias I had during my first assignment. I was already used to using it.”

Another question popped into her head, but she shoved it aside. Curious as she was to know why a prince would waste his time with her, it would bring the subject back to Shroud. She’d rather throw herself onto the frigid ice than have another conversation about them after having just escaped a two-hour lecture on the matter.

But now she couldn’t think of anything else to talk about. There were the usual questions, but she never thought matters of favorites and preferences made for good talking points. In her experience, it sparked petty arguments regarding why one person’s taste was better than the other’s, and she was certain arguing with a prince wouldn’t get her anywhere. She wouldn’t say Wil was overly arrogant or grandiose, not like the nobles in the academy, but for all she knew, he could be. She didn’t know him well enough to say.

She didn’t know him at all, and everyone seemed to forget that.

Everna wasn’t blind. He was attractive, but if looks were all she cared for, she’d have been married long before now. There were plenty of attractive men in both Pendel and the capital, but their personalities weren’t quite what she was looking for. They went too far in either direction — overly chivalrous or completely insensitive, and none of them capable of rising to a challenge without taking offense or returning the favor without thinking they offended her.

She didn’t want a doormat, but she didn’t want an obstinate ass, either.

Wil was somewhere in the middle, but the inability to sustain a conversation unrelated to Shroud and their plans was a bit of an issue. It was all she talked about these days — Shroud, and occasionally, men. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a normal conversation.

More and more, she found she missed the capital. She’d rather listen to her dorm mates ramble about the intricacies of runes and the origins of enchantments than sit through one more conversation about her pursuers. Hell, she’d rather hear Lyra’s ceaseless complaining about Gyles or even listen to Vina’s horrendous singing. She’d take what she could get.

“Out of curiosity, why did you want to be an Inquisitor?”

Wil's question startled her from her musings.

Everna pursed her lips. She didn't have an answer for that as even she hadn't a clue. She wasn't overly concerned with upholding justice and putting criminals behind bars, nor did she have a morbid fascination with gore and death. Law never appealed to her, and she had no desire to sit in the Courts and argue for interpretations and policy. The only thing that piqued her interest was the problem-solving aspect of it.

"Want? No," she sighed. "I was always told I'd be good at it. That anything less would be an egregious waste of my potential."

Throughout her schooling, her instructors hounded her with praise, so much to the point it drove her to the furthest reaches of her patience. They had high expectations of her, and their expectations of her future were higher still — and they all had differing ideas of what she should be. She was too intelligent not to be a scholar; too perceptive not to be an Inquisitor; too rational not to be an Arbiter. To be anything less would be to waste the gifts given to her by the gods.

"And what did you want to do?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, though it was a lie. "I thought there was a possibility I wanted to be an Inquisitor and just hadn't realized it yet, but after all of this, I'm not so sure."

No, what Everna wanted was to be a bard, much like the friend of her parents' who frequented the tavern when she was younger. Sariel sparked her love of stories and her desire to learn to sing. She taught her to play the flute, how to sing, and how to read the strange language of music.

Her parents never approved, for what living could she make on bouncing from tavern to tavern, singing bawdy tunes and trilling on a flute for days on end? They indulged her just enough to appease her, but they strongly insisted those skills remain hobbies. She sang during the Harvest Festivals, and occasionally the town's children convinced her to tell the story of her father slaying Dulzraran, but that was all those talents were good for — entertaining the townsfolk.

Like all childish dreams, she grew out of it. She shoved her flute, her music, and her discarded manuscripts into a box and buried it deep beneath her bed with only the dust bunnies to keep them company. As everyone around her insisted, she put her talents towards more lucrative endeavors — all while surrounded by a constant, mocking reminder of why they insisted she do so.

"You're not as good at lying as you think you are," Wil said after a moment.

She blew out a breath. "It's nothing. Just a stupid childhood delusion."

"Which is?"

When she didn't respond, he nudged her with the toe of his boot. "You were the one who wanted to talk about something other than Shroud and I'm out here freezing my ass off, so get on with it."

After a few moments, a resigned sigh pulled from her lips. "No, I didn't want to be an Inquisitor. I wanted to be something far less ideal, as far as everyone else was concerned."

"Gods, you're as bad as the Inquisitors," he grumbled. "It would kill you to give a straight answer for once."

"Because every time I bring it up, people laugh. It's not something people consider respectable," she said. "I mean, honestly, would you take someone seriously if they told you they wanted to be a bard?"

A pregnant pause preceded his response. Again, Everna glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. She could see him working through his response, as if he were trying to come up with a way to say what he wanted without completely offending her. He had that same conflicted look while trying to console her after their return from Windhollow.

At least he didn't laugh.

"An actual bard, or what everyone thinks is a bard?" he asked after another moment of silent debate. "Because those are two very different things."

"I would think you'd have figured out by now that I have a little more dignity than Vina," she bit out. "But enlighten me. What's the difference?"

"The hacks have blown it out of proportion, but there is some truth to it. I've no doubts there's some freak out there who bedded a dragon. The problem is very few people know what a bard is, as you won't know a real one when you see them."

Her father said something similar once, and Sariel had appeared as a normal traveler until she graced the tavern with her heavenly voice. It was only after she was aware of her occupation that Everna noticed the more subtle signs.

Still, she snorted and said, "Now who's not answering the question?"

Wil lowered himself until he sat on the dock, one leg dangling over the edge and the other pulled to his chest, his arm draped over his knee. It was one of the few times she'd seen him sit. He usually kept on his feet, and often to the shadows, as if he expected an attack at any moment.

"There's a saying in Shadowguard that a good bard is a better rogue. They're jacks-of-all-trades, not just performers, magicians, and poets," he said. "They're spies, assassins, and thieves as well. What you're likely thinking of is a minstrel, which most people who claim to be bards are."

Whatever the distinction was, it didn't matter; people had no respect for either. They were laughing stocks — liars and cheats with delusions of grandeur and driven by an insatiable greed for fame and fortune. Had she not met Sariel, who was very much like the bard she'd read about in novels, she'd agree. She'd seen enough frauds perpetuating the stigma over the years. It was the easiest occupation to fake.

"Well, whatever I wanted to be, it doesn't matter. Like I said, it was a stupid childhood delusion. I've already come to terms with reality. If I don't die before all of this is over, I'll either end up back in the capital or I'll be stuck at the tavern until I get married."

The more she thought of it, the less either option appealed to her. She had no intentions of returning to the same Courts who threw her to the wolves, though she'd love to hear their justification for trying to kill an innocent woman in the name of appearances. Wasting her days in the tavern wore on her, and she hadn't realized how much she hated it until she'd spent more than a day free of her duties.

Her mother was right; she was getting too old to live at home, but she'd never had many options. It took her months just to convince her parents to consider the possibility of sending her to the capital, and it came with stipulations, both from her them and the source of her scholarship. She had to choose a legitimate academic pursuit and becoming an Inquisitor was the only thing that interested her at the time.

Looking back on it, she couldn't quite say why she wanted to go to the academy. Was it because her teachers insisted she was too intelligent not to pursue higher education? Or was she itching to get out on her own and it offered the easiest (though most expensive) way of doing so? Perhaps she truly wanted to be an Inquisitor until she arrived at the academy and discovered what it entailed.

"You say that like those are your only options,” Wil said.

"Because they are," she said.

"If you let them be, maybe. You always have choices."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, two and neither of them I like. Just like the choices that got me into this mess."

"You know what your problem is?" Wil asked as he climbed to his feet and fisted his hands inside the edges of his cloak. "You let everyone else push you around ,and while you complain about it, you don't actually do anything to stop it."

"And how, pray tell, am I supposed to stop it?"

"Stop thinking your only choices in life are to do what you're told. People only have as much power over you as you let them have."

She gritted her teeth. "What do you want me to do? Pack a bag and run away from home?"

"You've already done that," he pointed out. "The truth is, no matter what you do, people won't stop trying to thrust their expectations and desires onto you. Most mean well, but they forget one important thing."

"And that is?"

"They can make as many suggestions as they'd like, but that's all they are: suggestions. You're the one with the final decision, and you're the one who has to live with it, not them."

If only everyone else could see it that way, she thought.

His hand, gloved and speckled with snow, appeared before her face. "Speaking of decisions, you made one in Windhollow you need to see through. I think Dain and Adela would rather have you with them when it's time for them to head to the tavern."

Frustration

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