The King's Weaver (Hardcover)

It’s spring, but the corridor outside the throne room is cold as a tomb. My breath mists as I pause with the other court mage candidates outside the broad oak doors, waiting for the guards to open them. I catch a reflection in a guard’s polished shield, and for a moment, I don’t remember that it’s mine.

But it is. That young man with shoulder-length, light brown hair and dark brown eyes peering at me from behind wire-rimmed spectacles is…me. It’s an illusion, but it’s a damned good one. Because I’m not actually a man. 

But no one here can know that.

Master Aldric, the court mage in charge of selecting the new court mages from among us candidates, bangs his staff on the stone floor.

“You will file in a straight line! You will not address the king directly, or any of the courtiers!”

I study him through my spectacles. He’s mostly balding, his long gray hair neatly braided down his back. His clean-shaven face shows a nick on one cheek, and his right hand sparks with a ruby ring. Master Aldric has been the only weaver at court, the only court mage to use thread magic, since longer than I’ve been alive.

“You will bow to the king and perform exactly the magic you signed up to perform, no longer than two turns of the minute glass, and then you will bow again and cede your turn to the candidate to your left.” He bangs his staff again. “Failure to follow these instructions will earn you an immediate dismissal. Failure will mean banishment from court. All who understand me, say aye!”

I shout “Aye!” along with the rest. My voice is an illusion, too, reality tuned a few tones down with my own weaving. I’m pretty proud of that—not that I can brag about it to anyone.

“All right,” Master Aldric says, holding up his hands. “This is your chance to be a guest of the court and earn the king’s—and my—favor. May you be men of honor and bring honor to your king and to all mages this day!”

I swallow hard. Yes, I’m a mage.

I’m also a woman.

I’m also a princess.

And those last two things would never get me in here on my own. Never let me get close to the king until it’s our wedding day.

My name is Irava Anoran Varandre, Third Daughter of the Queen of Galenda. And my mother betrothed me to a murderous tyrant.

So I’d best see if the murderous rumors are true before I share my life with him. And my bed.

Gods help me.

The guards push open the doors to the throne room, a slow creaking of enormous hinges. The earthy smell of stone gusts out, with cloying clouds of perfume.

The courtiers gathered inside, standing on either side of the wide center aisle, gawk at us. Frilled and serious and glittering, their faces deep umber, pale rose, rich ochre, and every tone between, their brocade and lace so rich it rivals the murals in any great hall.

But my eyes go straight to the man on the throne.

Torovan Braise, King of Barella. Young for a king, fit and with gray-green eyes that pierce the air around him. Black hair flows loose around his shoulders. A wide gold band set with emeralds is perched on his brow, adding to the intensity of his eyes. Smooth light brown skin. Heavy brow and strong chin. A hint of dark stubble. He’s not smiling, but that doesn’t lessen his visual appeal—gods, I hadn’t expected him to be this handsome.

His knee bounces as he watches us candidates file inside, like he’s only just barely bothering to be here. Like he doesn’t actually care that this demonstration will show him who might be a mage at his court for the rest of his life.

This is my betrothed. This man. This is the man my mother decided I should marry.

For a moment, just a moment, his gaze locks on mine.

And it takes all I have to keep walking forward, walking toward him, knowing that I do have my illusion of thread magic woven around me, my distortion of reality. He can’t see through it. No one can. I’m good at what I do.

I should lower my eyes, but I don’t. I’m desperately searching for answers, and I know I won’t find them here or now, but I can hope, can’t I? I can hope that the eyes I’m looking into aren’t the eyes of a killer. 

But the rumors say otherwise. And there’s nothing in that hard gaze that contradicts them.

I look down, taking my place in the lineup of candidates across the throne room. 

Deep breath. Gather my will.

I’m one of only two weavers among the ten candidates. Everyone else possesses elemental magic. Which you’re born with. But weaving—weaving, you teach yourself. 

And Master Aldric, who takes up position on the sidelines, is the only court mage in fifty years who’s been a weaver.

I have to become a court mage. 

I have to get close to the king.

Because I’m not going to marry a man who killed his father to gain a throne.