Prologue
Sorcha watched as the secrets hidden in darkness were exiled for the day. King Sun peered over the far edge of the sea, bringing pinks and oranges—his royal entourage. She shivered as He slipped his fingers along the edges of the stratus clouds that stretched out in broken pieces. Quivering, she watched as sly King Sun leered at the whole world. What would this inauspicious day bring? Her stomach roiled. As she looked into her future, it loomed, a black void. She couldn’t know what was coming. But King Sun did. He always knew.
On the shore, she sat with her knees tucked under her chin. Her face was framed with long flowing hair, burning red, reflecting the loathsome Sun. Eyebrows had come together unbidden and frown lines paralleled her brows. In her chest burned an anger so hot, it echoed the burning of King Sun. She pushed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes, but try as she might, she couldn’t stop the scalding tears that squeezed between her pinched eyelids; tears that coursed down her cheeks; tears that burned holes in her tunic where they fell. Rolling sobs shook her—her shoulders and chest—as they rose and fell in gasps.
“No!” she exclaimed. She scrambled to her feet and turned to stare down the Sun. “No, you are not my friend.” She stabbed an accusing finger. “You keep rising and falling and rising and falling, bringing me closer every day to what I don’t want! Why can’t you just stay up or stay down and stop time?”
King Sun, of course, did not deem to answer. Instead, His fingers had become hands, and He pushed His glowing, unwanted face over the edge of the horizon.
Sorcha spun away from the increasing light and stomped along the shore, one angry footfall after another. Her hands were balled tight, and the fierce frown continued to pull together her otherwise perfect brow. Her green eyes flashed, challenging the Sun. She stopped and turned back toward the cliff that hid her father’s castle. Her mouth dropped open and without thought or intention, Sorcha’s clenched fists and bent arms pulled back as she bent forward at the waist with a loud guttural scream that came from deep within her. She dropped to her knees, retching.
“I will not marry Prince Drest!” Sorcha cried out. “You can’t make me.” She crawled away from the splattered sick and then collapsed upon the sand pummelling it with her fists. The grains cut unnoticed into her flesh. She raged against the unseen prison that awaited her back at the castle. Faster and faster, she struck the sharp sand until she collapsed, panting, too tired for tears.
“I don’t care if he’s the son of the King of Alba,” she whimpered. “I don’t care that I’m the daughter of the King of Fortriu. He’s wart-covered and puny.” The image of Drest’s scrawny arms and ugly face floated in the darkness behind Sorcha’s closed eyes. Shaking her head, she opened her eyes and stared up at King Sun.
“Even I swing a sword better than he does,” she cried, then, her voice dropping to a whisper. “No, I will never marry him.”
At that moment Sorcha did not know just how prophetic her statement was—but the Sun did. It watched as Viking sails rose and glided silently over the horizon.
