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seemed to be that Marissa, as a true blood royal, was the next Caller of Light.
    He ran his fingers through his hair and stared out a window overlooking the gravel driveway leading to the castle entrance. A knot of apprehension curled in his gut. Marissa reminded him of Saffron. How could he take Marissa back to Stirrlan to become his wife and queen when he didn’t enjoy being in her company?
    “Lady Marissa doesn’t even like Critons,” he grumbled. “Wouldn’t the Caller at least appreciate the companionship of the animals she calls?”
    “Sire, there are more unbonded Critons nesting on King McKay’s land than I thought possible. Perhaps the attraction doesn’t have to be mutual.”
    Marek stared at his captain. Sampson wore a heavy cotton tunic, quartered in white and red panels, with the Stirrlan crest embroidered on the upper left quadrant. Two dirks, their silver handles gleaming in the light, draped across his chest while his hand casually rested on the hilt of the great sword hanging around his waist.
    Marek shook his head, disapproving of his friend’s eagerness. If Sampson thought spending what little money Stirrlan had left to journey here and court Marissa was a good idea, he was mistaken.
    Sampson shrugged, his curly, black hair bouncing at the movement. “Well, even if she’s not the next Caller, you still need an heir.”
    He threw Sampson a warning look. They’d grown up together as boys—he, a prince to become king, and Sampson, a captain’s son to someday run his army. Their friendship allowed Sampson the latitude of free speech, but this time the truth in his words touched a nerve.
    Marek scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know Sampson, but have you seen her?”
    Sampson’s eyebrows drew together. “She’s beautiful, no?”
    “I suppose,” he groused. “But I never knew there could be so much to say about the way one dresses.”
    “Well, as far as I know, not much talking need occur when conceiving an heir.”
    He glared at Sampson. “Aye, but really?”
    “The burden a king must endure, Sire.”
    Marek frowned.
    Sampson grinned.
    Both men burst out laughing.
    “I’m delighted to see you enjoying yourselves,” Regin bellowed as he entered the room. He sparkled in a burgundy doublet with slashed sleeves displaying the white lining underneath. Gold buttons fastened the bottom of the doublet for a snug fit around his ample waist. Breeches, stockings, and shiny black shoes complemented his royal ensemble.
    Marek inclined his head in agreement. “Your house has been most hospitable.”
    “Outstanding.” Regin strutted over to a plush, red chair and plopped his wide body into it. “Marek, please sit here,” he said, patting the chair next to him.
    As Marek sat in his assigned spot, Sampson moved to a location offering the best strategic vantage point. From Sampson’s position, he could now watch the door and the entire room while protecting Marek’s back.
    Regin’s fingers thrummed on the overstuffed armrest, waiting for the servant to pour the drinks. As soon as the servant stepped from the room, Regan sipped his drink and began asking the questions Marek expected, but dreaded just the same.
    “How protected are your borders? I don’t want my girl going where she’ll be in danger.”
    “My army is strong and my house well guarded.”
    Regin raised his red, bushy eyebrows. “I hear savage tribes encroach your land?”
    Marek kept his face neutral. “Although part of my eastern border butts against the Outlands, my perimeter remains secure.”
    “And you seek my daughter’s hand hoping she’s the next Caller?”
    “The goal of every king is to strengthen his holdings by having bonded riders protect not only his land, but his most prized possessions, like…” Marek swallowed, forcing the words from his mouth, “…your daughter.”
    Regin chuckled. “I think she’s quite taken with you too.”
    “I’m honored,” Marek answered with an obliged nod.
    Regin’s