Chapter 1

1: …of Mice

Efren

Crown Prince Efren of Zioneven sat on the end of the bed and grinned as Prince Marcelo’s personal servant eased a brush through the strawberry blonde curls that had taken Efren’s breath away when he’d caught his first glimpse of his new husband—or husband-to-be, at the time. Before Marcelo had known of Efren’s intentions. When Marcelo had stood in a line with his family, quietly assessing the entourage from Zioneven that had arrived for the wedding they’d thought would be canceled.

The wedding had gone on, but with a change in one of the participants. Marcelo had taken the place of his deceased sister.

A delicate blush crept across Marcelo’s cheeks as he peeked at Efren through half-lowered eyelids. Perhaps recalling their successful joining last night? Successful not in that the consummation of their marriage had been accomplished—they hadn’t had any choice in that regard—but in that they had reveled in each other’s touch.

And better yet was the budding mutual affection developing between them. Marcelo stood and smoothed down his already wrinkle-free travel tunic. He drew in a breath as if to steady his nerves and crossed the large room to join Efren.

Efren stood and put out his hands to take Marcelo’s. The young man—barely eighteen—was quiet-natured and perhaps a touch shy, but had spirit. Efren leaned across the gap Marcelo had left between them and brushed his lips over the curve of a slight smile.

“Are you ready to go down, my darling?” Efren resisted a strong desire to run his fingers through those freshly brushed loose ringlets.

“Yes, I look forward to seeing your kingdom and meeting your family,” Marcelo replied in a routine manner. But the compliant words rang true. Doubtful he was looking forward to the journey itself, but he had asked earnest questions since learning of his pending marriage, taking the inevitability of it in stride, and seemed to truly embrace the new life awaiting him.

Marcelo clasped Efren’s proffered elbow, and together they descended to the great hall to break their fast before beginning the long trek home.

Efren restrained an inner scowl that threatened to break free when Gideon Bailey, Zioneven’s ambassador to Sheburat, signaled to him with a subtle tilt of his head. The brief respite from official business offered by his wedding night was over. Efren braced himself, simultaneously anticipating and dreading Gideon’s report.

He turned to Marcelo, whose long, soft hair shone in the early morning light slanting through an east-facing window. “My darling, please excuse me for a moment.” Efren lifted the hand he’d been holding and landed a brief kiss to the inside of Marcelo’s wrist. “I’ll join you shortly at the table.”

Marcelo’s manners were too refined for him to voice an objection, but the tilt of his brows conveyed a mild curiosity. He nodded to Efren, and a smile played at his lips. “Of course.”

Efren strode across the hall to face Gideon. “Do you have news of the missing ‘mouse’?”

“I do,” Gideon replied. “Hugh’s returned.”

Hugh was one of the “mice,” the Zioneven spies who had long ago infiltrated the village where Sheburat’s castle was situated. They monitored the general mood of the people, gathered and traced rumors, and were continually on the lookout for anything that might be pertinent to Zioneven’s still-raw relationship and fledgling peace with Sheburat.

“Where was he?”

“Tracking a man to Gagel.”

Efren closed his eyes and took a calming breath. There was only one likely reason for the man to have bolted toward this particular neighboring kingdom. Efren should have known the explanation for the accident that had occurred, killing his intended bride, had been too simple to be true. He didn’t need to ask what, or even why, that much he could surmise. A knot tightened in his gut as he asked the remaining question. “How did they do it?”

Both Gideon and one of the advanced riders of Efren’s entourage who had traveled from Zioneven to Sheburat for the wedding had witnessed the accident. They had not noticed anything suspicious. Neither had the number of Sheburat soldiers stationed around the courtyard. Only the disappearance of Hugh had tipped off Gideon and Efren to the possibility of foul play.

The horse Princess Marcela had been riding had stumbled, throwing her and breaking her neck two days before she and Efren were to have wed. Apparently, that stumble had been engineered in some manner.

“We suspect Shalmo.” Gideon’s face appeared a tight mask. He would know the implications as well as Efren did. Shalmo was a delayed-reaction drug developed by alchemists in Zioneven. It didn’t kill, but it would daze the victim. Once the drug activated, the victim would suddenly behave in a drunken manner. A horse drugged with Shalmo would unexpectedly stagger around aimlessly.