Chapter Twelve
Spring 521
My name was being whispered in the wind. It tickled my hair, brushed my skin like a feather, and sometimes, it woke me in the night, pressing into my mind like a probing lover. Sobian was still in Morcant’s capital of Dùn Breatann, but I didn’t need her network of fishermen and sailors to know my name slithered through the waterways too. My name was attached to a word that could condemn as easily as it could seduce—insurrection.
Treason found me on an ordinary spring morning, shortly after Beltane, sparring with Kiara and our students in the Stirling barracks south of my holding. Like a dog whose scent I thought I’d lost back in Camelot, it came bounding through the gates in the person of Nachton the Huntsman. My conflicted heart did not know whether to leap a
