That was easy. He wanted his lady and his stories. More than that, he would not ask. The rest, they would build together.

There was a pause . . . a question . . .

His voice. The scars.

Ah. He hesitated. . . .

No. His choice was made even before he had thought it through. Change nothing, he thought firmly, trying to make sure the wild magic understood. Bethral loves me as I am, and those events made me as I am now. Change nothing.

Laughter then, a wonderful, happy sound, seeming filled with an acknowledgment of wisdom hard-won. Then the light and power twirled, and Ezren felt as though he was being tossed and twisted by the wild currents of time.

Slowly, his senses returned, and the world righted itself. While he still could not see, he felt Bethral’s hand in his.

He tightened his grip, and her fingers clutched at his just as tightly.

The blindness faded, and as the world came into focus, he could see her next to him, her blue eyes wide. “Ezren,” she said breathlessly.

“I am here,” he said, pulling her close, their hands still clasped tight.

The light surrounded them, covering them with a soft aura. Bethral seemed to sparkle, her armor glittering in the light. “Are we dead?” she whispered.

“If we are,” he said just as softly, “we are together.”

But then Ezren felt cobblestones under his boots, and the glow faded away. He was facing Bethral, who looked dazed and confused, and beautiful. Bessie was behind her, shaking her head with a jingle of harness and barding.

They were standing in the center of the courtyard of the Castle of Edenrich, the sun blazing above them in a cloudless sky.

Ezren could not believe his eyes, but his lungs filled with the scents of the city, the familiar smells that spoke of civilization.

Awareness hit Bethral’s face as well, and she stared at him in disbelief. “We’re back?”

Ezren swooped her up with a great laugh, lifting her high in his arms, plate armor and all, swinging them both in a circle. “The triumphant heroes return!”

“Ezren,” Bethral gasped, staring at him. “Are you well? The magic?”

He stopped and stood there for a moment, bracing himself against her weight. “Lord of Light . . . it’s gone.” He grinned at her. “It’s gone!” He spun her around once again, in the opposite direction, laughing with delight.

Bethral laughed as well, her hands on his shoulders, her hair sweeping through the air. He rejoiced at the happiness in her eyes. With care, he set her on her feet, keeping his arms around her waist. “I am going to peel you out of that armor and—”

Someone coughed.

Ezren jerked back, then spun, finally focusing on the people around them.

Queen Gloriana stood close to the back wall of the courtyard, holding a bloody sword in her red-gloved hands. Ezren narrowed his eyes at the sight of the gloves that were to be worn only in times of dire threat to the kingdom.

Gloriana’s eyes were wide as she stared at them, her sword held defensively. “Bethral?”

Oris lay on the ground behind her, his face slack. Alad was next to him, propped up on an elbow, blood staining his chest. He was panting, his hand pressed over the wound, his face filled with fear and astonishment.

Bethral shifted, drawing Ezren’s attention behind him.

Five men stood there, weapons out and ready. They were spread out, blocking all exits from the courtyard. Armed and well-armored, they all stared with the cold eyes of killers. Behind them stood a figure taller than the others, wearing a dark, hooded cloak.

The figure’s eyes flashed in the depths of the hood. “What in the name of—”

“Gloriana?” Bethral asked, her hand going to the handle of her mace. “Who are these men?”

“Bethral?” Gloriana breathed, as if not daring to believe. “Ezren?”

“They’re traitors,” Alad gasped from the ground.

“Good enough,” Ezren said, and stepped back. “My Lady?”

Bethral leapt for Bessie’s saddle. With one swift move, she raised her mace and turned Bessie to face the foe.

“Kill them,” the cloaked man shouted, pointing at Bethral.

“Idiots,” Ezren muttered, backing closer to Gloriana. Her face was grim, and she jerked forward, as if to join the fight. “No.” Ezren put his hand on her arm. “Don’t get in Bethral’s way.”

Gloriana grimaced, but stayed where she was. Ezren knelt by Alad and eased him flat, frowning at the amount of blood. The blond tried to push him off. “Lady Bethral.” Alad struggled to rise. “She can’t hope to—”

“Yes, she can,” Ezren said, glancing over at his lady.

Bessie snorted as Bethral settled in the saddle and they charged the first man to move.

The fight exploded around them. The five men tried to meet Bethral’s charge, their shields and swords held high. But the warhorse crashed into the group, knocking one man to the ground, then using her hooves to make certain he would not rise again.

Bethral swung her mace as Bessie pivoted and kicked, a whirlwind of death. Two more joined the man on the ground, helmets dented, clearly unconscious. The other two started to move back, eyeing the open gate.

There was a scrabble of boots on the cobblestones as Gloriana ran forward, charging straight for the leader.

The figure in the cloak backpedaled, shouting orders to the remaining men. “Attack the Storyteller,” he snarled.

They started to obey, turning their backs on Bethral and running toward Ezren.

Ezren just stared at them, shaking his head. “Fools!”

A bloodcurdling scream, and the nearest one stumbled and fell, a lance of the Plains piercing his chest.

The second man didn’t stop. He turned and sprinted for the gates.

The second lance took him at the base of his spine.

Gloriana was fighting the leader, spitting curses as their swords crossed, her pretty face contorted in rage. Her opponent was barely managing to parry her blows.

Bethral turned Bessie, focused on Gloriana’s opponent, and drew another lance.

The figure fled through the gates. Gloriana made as if to follow.

“No,” Bethral commanded.

Gloriana stopped, breathing hard, her sword at her side. “But—”

“No.” Bethral slid from the saddle. “You don’t know—there might be an ambush waiting.”

Gloriana swallowed hard as she tried to pull herself together. “I was praying to the Lord and Lady . . . where did you come from?”

“Explanation will have to wait.” Ezren knelt again. “Oris and Alad need healers.”

“Where in the name of all the hells are your guards?” Bethral demanded.

Gloriana looked down. “I didn’t raise an alarm. I need to explain—”

Ezren didn’t like the sound of that. But he looked down at a touch on his arm. “Lord Ezren? Is that really you?” Oris lifted his head, his eyes dazed and distant. “We thought you dead.”

Ezren put a hand in the middle of Oris’s back. “Stay still man, until we can get help.”

“Guards!” Bethral had dismounted, and was pounding on the doors into the castle proper. Whatever objection Gloriana had was being ignored, apparently. Guardsmen spilled into the courtyard, weapons at the ready.

Gloriana hurried toward Ezren. “I never thought to see you again. Where have you been?”

“Later.” Ezren wadded up some of Alad’s tunic and pressed it to his side to stanch the bleeding.

“I want to hear that tale,” Oris said.

“No fear,” Ezren said. “I will tell the tale at our wedding feast.” He looked at Bethral, who was snapping commands to all and sundry.

Bethral paused, as if sensing his gaze. She returned his look, a smile dancing on her lips, before she resumed issuing sharp orders to the guards.

“About time,” Oris grumbled. “You two were as thick as stumps about your feelings for one another.”

Gloriana snorted out a surprised laugh as she knelt at his side. “Oris!”

“Well, it’s true,” Oris said. “And you! Where did you learn such language, young lady?”

Gloriana choked back a sob that turned into a laugh. “Alad.”

“I never!” Alad protested.

The guards were gathering around, and lifted the men into their arms. “To the healers, and quickly,” Gloriana ordered, and they left at a run.

Ezren turned to Queen Gloriana, who stood looking after her men, blood dripping from her sword. “What happened here?”

Gloriana sighed. “A long tale. But it—”

“Can wait,” Bethral insisted, looking at the guards that were dealing with the dead. “Let’s see to your safety first.”

“This way,” Gloriana said. “One of these men can see to your horse. Once we’re in my chambers, I’ll tell you all about it. But you must tell me your story as well.”

“Of course,” Ezren said, but then he stopped dead. “Lord of Light, I do not know what happened on the Plains or how the story ends!”

“Well, you know our ending,” Bethral said softly. “It ends with a beginning. Our lives. Our love.” She held up her hand, displaying a silver scar that ran the length of her palm.

Ezren found the same scar on his palm. He drew a deep, satisfied breath as a sense of well-being swelled in his chest. He looked into Bethral’s blue eyes and smiled, reaching out to pull her close. “It does at that. We will start the story there, shall we?”

Bethral pressed her lips to his. “Yes, love. I rather think we will.”