Prologue

Born to Lucian Rowen and Celissa Silverton three days before the Autumn Equinox, in the high, cold northlands of the Reuta Eltir, Arenna lived with her mother and father for her first fourteen years. Trained almost from birth in all of the martial arts, she was sent south to further her education at the famed Antorin Institute. Antorin was full of bullies, indifferent teachers, true friends, deadly dangerous practical jokes, and an interesting spy network reaching the capitals of several foreign countries.

Ren was out of place in Antorin. With her elbow length, blue-black hair and dark blue eyes, she was a far cry from the blond-haired, green-eyed southerners. She was tall and lanky, but strong for all her slenderness. Her skin was pale, her lips dark and red, her cheeks dusted with the faintest presence of rose. Ren’s nose was strong and straight, but fine-boned. Her fingers were long and thin, like the rest of her.

Ren moved gracefully, whether on the practice courts or off. Disdaining most organized sports, she preferred the independency of sword fighting to the collaboration of team activities. This was only natural, since Ren grew up relying only on herself; there was virtually no one else she could trust. Having been the only girl in her entire extended family, Ren had had to prove herself over and over to her brothers and male cousins.

Ren loved to ride horses. In the north, she had a swift steed, a blue roan she called Shadow. Ren and Shadow were nearly inseparable, ever to be found racing over fields of ice and snow, or over frozen lakes, Ren’s ebony hair melting into Shadow’s obsidian mane, like black and blue fire over bright alabaster snow and white marble skin. And sometimes, on those wide deserted plains, Ren would dance, black hair swirling in enchanting clouds, arms outstretched to the cold, pale blue winter sky.

When she left the north, Ren felt something die within her. It was as if the Reuta Eltir had tied a piece of her soul to itself, and by sailing south, she had rent that part of her spirit in two, leaving one half of it forever chained to her homeland.

***

Ren didn’t have friends in the northlands. She had never seen the point of them. But in Antorin, friends were vital for survival in the harsh school environment. You needed a friend if you had to sneak out to pay tribute to the upperclassmen. You needed a friend to provide an alibi when you went missing. You needed a friend to defend your back when you didn’t get the upperclassmen what they wanted for levy.

Ren’s friend was Treya Serandal. Treya had the curly red-gold hair and brown eyes of a westerner, and the tip-tilted nose of a southerner. She was from the coastal region of Dalmara, her parents sailors and tradesmen on the Dalmar Sea. Treya was tall, like Ren, but curvier; with dimples when she smiled, and a build most girls would sigh for in envy.

But Treya wasn’t the sort of girl who flaunted her beauty. When boys hooted and whistled, she would smile, and shake her red head, and laugh that wonderful infectious laugh, and walk on. Her laugh wasn’t tinkly like a bell, or rippling like a stream. It wasn’t deep and sonorous, nor high and diaphanous, but pleasantly in between. And it was that laugh that made the older girls hate her viciously.

Almost as soon they met, Ren and Treya became best friends. It was an unlikely pairing: warm, friendly, outgoing Treya, and cool, aloof, reclusive Ren. And yet, for no apparent reason, popular Treya reached out to the pale newcomer, and became the first real friend Ren had ever had. After that, Ren, who had been shunned because of her foreign looks, became accepted into the midst of Antorin’s elite society.

Ren and Treya were very different in appearance. Ren, having grown up among boys, had never embraced the cumbersome skirts and dresses girls and ladies were accustomed to wear. Now, as she had then, Ren was always seen in a blue, button-down shirt with loose sleeves (the cuffs invariably rolled up), baggy black breeches, and knee-high black leather boots with wide cuffs. Her hair was always braided tightly and fastened with a blue scrap of ribbon (or, if she were made to dress up, a simple silver barrette). And although she never wore the bracelets, rings, and various other bangles the other girls at Antorin wore, she did wear a pair of plain silver hoops in her ears, and a silver chain upon which hung a flat, shimmering blue piece of abalone in a silver setting. Oddly, this sparse adornment suited her perfectly. Treya, however, was never seen without plenty of golden rings, red-beaded bracelets, and necklaces (and earrings) of crimson glass or- if she could get them- rubies. The redhead wore dresses (red, of course, or green or blue, or even purple), and piled her hair on her head like a real lady, securing it with golden pins. She wore dainty lace-up boots, which without fail matched her dresses. Treya had, in her possession, cut glass bottles of scent, which she used regularly. Ren had never used fragrance in her entire life.

But the dissimilarity on the outside did not even begin to reflect the variance on the inside. Treya was boy crazy. There was no other way to put it. She giggled and sighed and mooned over every single boy that caught her fancy. After lights out, in the room she and Ren shared, Treya would whisper aloud serenades and love poems, which Ren endured stoically. Ren was just as bad as Treya in her own way. She had, what Treya called, a fashion for weapons, and if uninterrupted, would go on for hours on the perfect symmetry of a sword; of the way the light broke in shards off the slim steel, sending jagged prisms of color flying away from the keen-edged metal. Or about the exquisite detail of the hilt, the carving, or inlays, depicting fantastical shapes and patterns; or the pommel: a crystal, a beryl, a precious jewel, a smooth round of cold iron; and how the light sheered away from the silky surface of the metal, or shattered upon the cut facets of a gem. This discourse Treya tolerated patiently, as Ren bore her chatter.

***

Although Ren’s life after Treya befriended her was mostly an improvement on what it had been before, there was a downside: the older girls, who, when Ren had been alone and unpopular, had ignored her, now disliked her immensely. The reason for their animosity was this: Ren was friends with Treya, and he older girls hated Treya. They were jealous of her looks, her laugh, and, most of all, the group of handsome upperclassmen who sent her flowers, and rings, and pins, and all manner of trinkets in an effort to win her over. These, the older girls thought, belonged rightfully to them. Treya was protected from some of their nastiness by the besotted upperclassmen, but not all of the older boys were smitten with her. And those that weren’t lost no time putting her in her place.

Chapter One: Viviane

Ren and Treya had just finished History, and were heading to their room, when they heard the shout.

"Hey!" Viviane Kearns’s derisive voice echoed down the oak-paneled corridor. Treya paused, as did Ren. "Northie!" she made the word sound like a curse. Ren turned, dark blue eyes blazing with undisguised fury at the insult. Treya put a warning hand on her friend’s shoulder as she saw Ren’s hand move instinctively to the hilt of her sword. "Tell your raunchy friend that she’d better raise her prices!" The older girl’s friends laughed maliciously as Viviane sauntered off, smirking.

One look at Treya’s face was all Ren needed. Hurrying to the room they shared, Ren deposited Treya, then shut and locked the door. Going to the girl’s dresser, she found a handkerchief among the chaos of the top drawer. She handed it to Treya. The girl accepted the cloth with a murmured thanks, wiping her eyes.

"Well, she’s a nasty piece of work, and no mistake," Ren commented quietly. Then, as more tears leaked down Treya’s face, she advised gently, "Pay no heed to her. She’s just resentful, because she’s not as sweet, or as lovely, or as- well, anything as you." A tearful smile formed on Treya’s trembling lips, like a shaft of sunlight penetrating the misty barrier a cloud. "Viviane Kearns is a stupid, vicious, envious girl, who wouldn’t know a kind word if it walked up and bit her in the… uh… that is… in the…" Ren coughed, searching for an appropriate word. Treya giggled wetly. Ren grew bolder. "And she can’t stand that you have all those handsome loons chasing you-" And Treya burst into tears afresh. Ren looked on helplessly, unsure of what to say.

"If I had only asked for all of them to court me, I’d understand!" Treya moaned, wringing out the sopping handkerchief uselessly. "But I didn’t! And I can’t help it that they do!" She blew her nose. "And I’m not some- some- some courtesan!" Another tear trickled down her cheek. Treya wiped it away angrily. She looked at Ren, her face tearstained, but still beautiful. "I’m sorry, I don’t mean to go all soppy on you," she whispered thickly. Ren smiled.

"What kind of friend would I be if you couldn’t go ‘all soppy’ on me, as you put it?" Treya considered this, eyes dancing, tears forgotten.

"Not a very good one," she concluded, grinning. Then her eyes clouded, and she burst out "She had no call to be so rude to you!" And with a glance to Ren asked, "What exactly did she men when she called you ‘Northie’?" Ren’s countenance darkened, and, after some thought, she answered, her voice flat, her eyes focusing on another place and time.

" ‘Northie’ is what the southern conquerors called us when they invaded the Northlands. To call someone a ‘northie’ in the Reuta Eltir, where I come from, is considered a deadly insult; one you could kill some for calling you." Treya looked up, aghast. Ren smiled crookedly. "Oh yes, we’re a barbarous, ferocious people, we northlanders." The smile vanished. "All too ferocious…" she murmured to herself. Treya looked at her friend, and although she said nothing, the question was clear in her soft brown eyes. Ren sighed deeply. "Let me tell you a story…" Treya leaned forward in anticipation.

***

Ren was five again. She sat in the dining hall of her parents’ manor, awaiting the return of the hunting party.

They were long overdue. The joking, laughing group of men had left with their horses and hounds had left one candlemark after sunrise. It was now far after nightfall. The atmosphere in the room was charged with tension.

Ren, in her child’s mind, did not understand the gravity of the situation. Night in the Reuta Eltir was deadly; temperatures reaching a score of degrees below freezing were commonplace. And two of the men were of a neighboring clan. This held no significance for Ren, as the bloody clan wars meant little to a five-year-old.

If she had been even a few years older, Ren might have realized what all the whispering was all about. But she was too young.

Finally, several hours later, the hunting party returned, blue with cold, and shivering visibly. Ren’s cousin Aryn, the leader of the company, was paler than usual, from chill and exhaustion. His sleek black hair was tangled, and blood seeped from an ugly gash on his forehead. Myria, his wife, cried out. She ran to him, hands over her mouth in horror.

Aryn slumped wearily into a chair. A quiet servant brought him a fragrant cup of hot spiced wine. He gulped it down, and some color returned to his cheeks. The servant brought him another glass, and this he sipped slowly, regaining some measure of warmth.

Fiery ale was brought for the hunters, and was accepted gratefully by all of them. All but one.

His name was Byrn Renhaf, and his clan was Vienosa. Byrn was one of the two men not of clan Ryala, Ren’s clan. Byrn knocked the chalice set before him over, spilling ale over the clean, polished tabletop, and onto the wood-paneled floor. A cold silence fell over the room, somehow worse than the nervous whispers.

"I refuse to raise my cup with a coward," Byrn announced, slowly and deliberately, in ringing tones. Aryn slammed his goblet down on the table. Red droplets of wine spattered like blood.

"There was nothing any of us could do! Fyorn is dead, Byrn, and may he sleep in silence!" Byrn shoved his chair violently back, his face a mask of rage.

"Sleep in silence?!" he cried, his voice escalating to a shout. "You expect me to put aside the death of my kinsman- of my brother?! You, who when faced with danger, showed no more valor than the Northie the southerners named you!" There were gasps and shouts of anger from the assembly. Aryn’s face went white, then red with wrath.

"Take back your words, or defend them with your sword!" he roared in a terrible voice. Myria wailed, rocking back and forth, hands fluttering like captive birds.

"My sword sings for blood, and it shall be thine!" cried Byrn.

***

Ren blinked.

She was in the room she shared with Treya, at the institute. Byrn was dead, as he had been these eleven years since the duel.

"So? What did Aryn do?" Treya’s voice was a faint buzzing in her ears.

"He fought Byrn."

"And…?" Treya prompted Ren impatiently.

And, Ren thought…

***

She was in the dueling hall, a circular chamber with tall, arched windows. No light shone through the brightly colored glass panes, for it was far into the night, and the pale winter sun had completed her daily round.

The moon was out, shining cold and bleak on the icy landscape. Skeletal trees, their leaves withered husks, shook in blasts of freezing wind.