Prologue

"More monsters have come from the Death Zone, Sire."

King Litham Alrade looked up at his trusted advisor. Lines of weariness mapped his parchment-pale skin, and steel grey brows drew together above dark blue eyes that had lost their lustre. Shadows of pain lurked in their depths, reflecting that which gnawed at his innards and loosened his hold on life. The doctors had withdrawn from the sickbed and stood in affronted unwillingness to admit their failure.

Heavy, indigo velvet curtains covered the windows and kept the wood-panelled bedchamber gloomy, adding to the sense of doom. Smoking braziers burnt incense, thickening the air with cloying scent. Bottles, vials and pots cluttered the bedside table, testament to the doctors' futile ministrations.

King Alrade's swift illness had taken all by surprise, wasting the flesh from his powerful frame at an alarming speed and robbing him of his strength. The King's eyes wandered over his long-time friend's face, seeking an answer in his elderly features but finding none. Despair flared in his eyes.

"What can I do about it now, Pervor? All that I can, I have done. Did you meet the wizard?"

The gaunt, balding advisor nodded. "He agreed to help. He told me that he would send a tool, some sort of magical device, and it will appear in our dungeons when it is ready. Do you truly trust this man, Sire? You leave the fate of your kingdom and your daughter in his hands."

King Alrade sighed and settled deeper into the soft cushions of his deathbed. "What choice do I have, my friend? The gods have decided to take me from this mortal plane, and none can gainsay them. Certainly not that brood of incompetents that lurk in the shadows. I only wish I could stay to see it through. Tassin does not deserve this burden on her reign, she is too young." Anger brought blood to stain the old King's cheeks for a moment before it drained away again. His wheezing broke the hush.

"Tassin is strong," Pervor soothed. "She comes from a long line of warrior kings and queens. She will win."

The King shook his head, closing his eyes as a stab of pain coursed through him. "She is frailer than you think. Her mother was as fragile as a flower, and as easily crushed. Why do you think she died birthing Tassin, who was such a small baby? Tassin tries to be a warrior princess, but she is too small, like her mother, her blows too puny. Mandon, bless him, makes her feel good when she does her sword training, but he tells me that she can hardly cleave a butterfly in half."

Pervor pursed pale lips and regarded the dying King. "But she has your blood in her too, My King. She will be strong when she has to."

"She will try. I pray that she does not kill herself in the process. Pervor, swear to me."

The aged advisor fell to one knee. "Anything, Sire, just name it."

"Protect her, and if you cannot, since you are old, find a mighty warrior who will. One who will stand beside her and kill her enemies when she cannot. She will have troubles aplenty, and not merely the monsters from the Death Zone that ravage our land. The kings will fight for her hand, and none are truly good. Find someone. Be he mage or warrior, prince or miracle worker. She will need him. Swear this to me."

Pervor bowed his head. "I swear, My King, upon my life and the lives of my children, to do my utmost."

"Tell her of the weapon as soon as she is Queen. Help her to use it, and defeat the Death Zone. I leave her in your care."

Pervor nodded, frowning as the King's breath rattled ominously, and one of the healers who hovered nearby stepped closer to bend over him.

"Send for the Princess," the doctor said.

The advisor retreated into the shadows as a manservant ran out. Pervor gazed at the King who lay shrunken and pale on the huge bed, the doctors gathered around him like vultures about a corpse.

Princess Tassin Alrade gazed down at her father's peaceful face, her throat tight with grief. His eyes remained closed and his breath came in shallow gasps. The bevy of doctors, advisors and servants who stood in the shadows watched her stroke his brow, lined by years of worry. The King was dying; everyone knew it. Soon she, a seventeen-year-old girl, would be Queen of a vast and powerful land. Her father had wed late in life, rejecting all offers until he had met the young, butterfly child of an insignificant lord. A brief year of happiness had ended with her mother's death a few days after Tassin's birth. From her father she had inherited the Alrade black hair and blue eyes, and from her mother's blood, her slight stature and fine features.

Tassin choked back her tears, sought his limp hand amongst the bed clothes and gripped it. The King, his beard grizzled and his lips tinged with blue, opened his eyes.

Tassin leant forward. "Papa? Papa, it's me."

His gasping breaths quieted. "Tassin, my child." His eyes roamed over her face, lingering on the features that reminded him of his dead wife, her gentle smile and soft eyes now filled with sorrow.

"Papa, you must not die. I do not want you to die."

The hand she held gripped hers weakly. "I am sorry, little one. Be happy, Tassin. Do not let anyone take that from you. Trust Pervor, he will guide you and take care of you. I go to join your mother."

"Papa!" Her tears overflowed as King Litham's eyes closed, and his breath left him in a long sigh. Tassin flung herself onto his chest and embraced him, shuddering sobs racking her slender form. A sigh came from the shadows where his retainers waited.

"The King is dead, long live the Queen," a voice proclaimed.

There was a rustle of rich cloth as the retainers knelt. A firm hand clasped her shoulder.

"Come, Your Majesty, he is dead." She did not recognise the voice, but allowed herself to be tugged away, numb with misery, hardly noticing as she was led to her room.

For ten days, the kingdom mourned, none more than Tassin. Her father lay in state, and mourners filed past to pay their last respects. He was interred in the royal tomb beside his wife, and Tassin was alone, an orphan at seventeen, barely of age. Pervor watched over her with the fervour of a broody hen, dogging her footsteps with unending advice. Her principal lady-in-waiting offered a plump, motherly shoulder on which to weep, and it was often damp. Ten days after the funeral, Tassin's coronation took place in her father's throne room.

Her ladies-in-waiting dressed her in a white satin gown, its bodice covered with intricate patterns of seed pearls and its gossamer sleeves sewn with tiny diamonds. Her silken tresses were teased into glossy bangs and swept up into a regal coif sparkling with jewelled pins and fine gold chains. Diamonds flashed on her fingers, wrists and neck. Tear-drop pearls dripped from her earlobes, and a diamond-studded silver mesh was pinned to the back of her hair, falling like a rain-dewed cobweb around her neck. Her ladies praised her beauty, but were forced to rub berry juice into her cheeks and lips to give them some colour, reminding Tassin of a lamb being prepared for slaughter.

The priests and nobles awaited her in the long, banner-hung throne room with its high roof and polished slate floor. Battle trophies, coats of arms and old suits of armour told the tale of her ancestors' glory days. The three rulers of the neighbouring kingdoms turned to rake her with cold, calculating eyes when she swept in. They were here to vie for her hand in marriage, and her extreme youth and beauty clearly pleased them. Her father's last words echoed in her mind as she was led towards the throne, hardly aware of the courtiers who sank down in homage as she passed.

The ceremony was a blur of droning speeches and tuneless hymns. She held the things that were placed in her hands, not caring what they were, and repeated the words that she was asked to, her mind still filled with the image of her father's gaunt, tired face. As the cold weight of the crown settled upon her brow, she vowed to obey her father's last wish. The eyes of the three kings crawled over her like loathsome slugs. Everywhere she looked, she met calculating gazes, plotting, weighing, seeking her mettle. She raised her chin in proud defiance of their judgement, and the scheming eyes slid away with cunning glints. Even at her coronation, enemies surrounded her. Her life was poised to plunge into a dark sea of intrigue and plots, and the prospect terrified her.