The city did resemble Aurilien in one respect: it was built on a hill, with the Count’s manor at the top of it. The hill wasn’t as high as Aurilien’s, but it was likewise covered with mansions belonging to the rich and powerful. Willow eyed them and idly plotted ways to infiltrate each one. That one had a side door no one was watching; another had ivy growing up a trellis on the southern wall—growing intentionally! A third was surrounded by ancient oaks that were as good as a ladder—
“You’re plotting thefts,” Kerish murmured.
“I am not. All right, maybe a little. I wouldn’t actually do it.”
“I know. It’s endearing. I’m happy to know you’re still you, even if you’ve given up the practice.”
Willow smiled. “Still glad you married me?”
“More every day.” He put his hand over hers where she held the reins.
Ahead, Waxwold Manor’s gate stood wide open. Ivy crawled over these stone walls too, but Willow wouldn’t have tried to climb it, not without a trellis’s support. The doors were elaborate wrought iron, chillier than the wind, but despite their decorative appearance, they were made for defense. Beyond the gate lay a garden that had been put to sleep for the winter, all the beds dug up and the shrubberies trimmed. Cut-back rosebushes lined the gravel path to the front door; they would be beautiful in the summer, but now they just looked tired and dispirited, as if they resented having to stand there in their nakedness.
Waxwold Manor itself looked more like a castle than a mansion, with turrets and steep roofs towering over the stone of its three stories. Stained glass windows lined the second story, while the ground floor windows were made of dozens of thick glass tiles in the style of a century before. No ivy cluttered these walls; the gray stone looked scrubbed clean, as if Lord Quinn had tidied up before they arrived. It was surprisingly beautiful and, despite all the ancient stone, felt welcoming. So houses didn’t always reflect the temperaments of their owners.
Willow brought the wagon to a stop at the front door. Two soldiers in Quinn scarlet and blue flanked the wide double door, made of oak banded with iron. As Claudia helped Felix down, the soldiers flung open both halves of the door and came to full attention. Kerish entered the hall, his hand on his sword, and for a moment stood silhouetted against the dark interior. Then he half-turned and extended his hand to Willow, who preceded Felix, with Claudia bringing up the rear.
Willow stepped inside and kept walking, though it was dark enough by comparison to even the dim light of outdoors that she was nearly blind. Then she realized the hall was full of people, and she stopped, making Felix bump into her. Men and women stood lining both walls to either side of the door, all of them dressed in finery similar to her own. Ahead, Lord Quinn waited beside a staircase that spiraled up to the second floor. The blond captain with the long face stood beside him, and even though he was a good foot taller than the Count, Willow recognized where she’d seen that face before. Son, or much younger brother?
Willow reached back and took Felix by the shoulder, steering him around to where he stood in front of her. She never took her eyes off Lord Quinn, whose expression in the dim light was thoughtful, almost calculating. It set off all sorts of warning bells in her head—take care what you say to him, take care what you promise—
“King Felix,” Lord Quinn said, rolling the words around in his mouth as if tasting them. “Your Majesty, welcome to my home.”
“Thank you,” Felix said in a voice that didn’t carry very far. Willow wished she could tell him to straighten up and speak out, but if ever there were a time he needed to stand alone, this was it.
A rustling began, spreading out from the walls, as the massed people staring at them went to one knee before Felix. The boy twitched, but kept his eyes on Lord Quinn, who alone in the room didn’t kneel. “Why aren’t you kneeling?” he asked.
“I’m afraid my knees aren’t what they used to be,” said Lord Quinn matter-of-factly. “Don’t take it as a sign of disrespect.”
“We understand, Lord Quinn,” Willow said. She understood all too well. Lord Quinn was going to give Felix his loyalty only so far as it suited him. Willow was willing to let him keep his dignity, if that’s how he saw it, but she wasn’t going to let him push her around. And she intended to make it clear he needed them more than she needed him.
“Thank you for your welcome,” she added. “We’re glad to find Kingsport relatively unscathed.” The great wall surrounding the city had been blackened and pitted where the Ascendants had attacked it, but not breached. Apparently the Kingsport militia was as expert as Lord Quinn had suggested.
“We appreciate the help of our allies. I think we would have found ourselves hard-pressed before much longer.”
Willow covertly glanced at the blond captain, whose face wasn’t as well controlled as his…Lord Quinn had to be his father. The man looked as if “hard-pressed” was an extreme understatement. “The King feels an obligation to his subjects,” she said, “and was pleased to come to your aid.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Quinn.
Willow nudged Felix discreetly between the shoulder blades. “You may rise,” Felix said, stammering a little. The rustling began again, intermittently this time as the rising was more ragged than the kneeling had been.
“I would like to discuss the terms of our alliance,” Lord Quinn said. “If you’ll join me in the study?”
Willow opened her mouth to protest—what alliance?—but as swiftly closed it. Lord Quinn would require careful handling, and she judged him proud, very conscious of his reputation and his standing. Calling him on his phrasing in front of his fellows might make all this fragile consensus tumble and fail. So she merely followed Lord Quinn and his son past the spiral staircase, through a doorway that led to a dining room whose roof soared high above, at least two stories tall. Long, highly polished oak tables, their tops about five inches thick, filled the room. A fireplace took up the far wall, bearing most of a tree that burned merrily despite the room being empty. The light flickered across the tables, which reflected the flames blurrily. Willow felt warm for the first time that day.
A dais to the left held a smaller table, and behind that was a door, not as imposing as the rest of the room. Lord Quinn stumped along, limping a little—maybe the thing about his knees wasn’t a total lie—and opened the door, bowing them in. Willow let the blond captain precede her; she didn’t like being the first one into an unknown room, even if she could sense there were no armed men waiting to attack. She followed closely behind Felix, putting a protective hand on his shoulder, and felt Kerish and his sword immediately behind her.
The room they entered was small by comparison to the dining hall, with a relatively low ceiling and a fireplace flanked by two arched windows of stained glass. Both were done in scarlet and blue and bore a gray wolf’s head in the center—Quinn colors. Willow wondered how long the Quinns had ruled in Waxwold. Long enough for the leading in those windows to gain a shiny patina. The red-rimmed blackness of lead gave the flat windows a surreal, three-dimensional appearance. She turned her attention from them and assessed the rest of the room: a desk and heavy chair, several smaller chairs lining the wall, a couple of upholstered armchairs in front of the fire. A cabinet with a locked door and a couple of bookcases that contained more weapons on display than actual books. She carefully didn’t look at the brightness of massed steel and chilly iron, instead finishing her examination of the room with an examination of its owner.
Lord Quinn gave a good impression of a man in control of his situation, but Willow noted the slight tremor in his hand when he turned one of the armchairs around, the way his jaw was clenched tight, and concluded he was more worried than he wanted her to realize. It comforted her to know he was at least as concerned about the outcome of this meeting as she was.
“Please take this seat, your Majesty,” Lord Quinn said. “Allow me to present my son and heir, Richard.”
The blond captain bowed, a respectful courtier’s bow. “You
r Majesty,” he said. His gaze flicked over Willow and settled on Kerish, rather appreciatively, Willow thought.
“My husband, Serjian Kerish,” she said, more to Richard Quinn than to his father, “and I think you already know Lady Claudia Lovell.”
“Lady Lovell,” Lord Quinn said, bowing. “You’re allied with his Majesty?”
“I am, Lord Quinn,” Claudia said. “I hope that’s not a problem for you.” If it isn’t for his Majesty rang unspoken in the air.
“Of course not,” Lord Quinn said. “Please, be seated.”
Felix sat in one of the armchairs and Lord Quinn dragged a second around to face him. Richard Quinn brought one of the smaller chairs next to Felix’s and indicated that Willow should sit. Willow took her seat and settled her full skirts around herself as the others took chairs some short distance away. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said, and waited for Lord Quinn to strike.
It came immediately. “Your military assistance was timely,” Lord Quinn said. “And I’ve done as I promised. I acknowledged young Felix as my King.”
“But…?” Willow prompted.
“You know I still outnumber you,” Lord Quinn said. “If not for the Ascendants, I wouldn’t need your help.”
“That’s a damned big ‘if’,” Willow said. “And there are more Ascendants out there.”
“Nevertheless, the fact remains that you need our troops if you want to take on Terence. Which means you should be willing to make concessions in exchange for our aid.”
“Felix is your King. You’re his vassal. We don’t make bargains with vassals.”
“Not a bargain. An acknowledgement that I’m a more valuable ally than Donald Frazier or Philippa Heath.”
“A reward for your service, maybe?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
Not where I could hear. “And I take it you have a proposal.”
“I do.” Lord Quinn leaned back in his chair. “I want the regency.”
Willow raised her eyebrows as if she were surprised by this, though the truth was she’d been expecting it. Really, Lord Quinn was sort of obvious. “That’s a big plum.”
“It’s a big thing you ask of me. If we fail, Terence won’t think twice about razing my county to the ground and putting one of his cronies in my place. And anyone can tell you I’d be qualified for the position.”
“You were willing to let Felix be crushed underfoot so you could be King. Why should I believe this is anything other than a sideways grab for personal power?”
“It’s no secret I’m fond of power, but I keep my promises, Lady North. There’s no way I can take the Crown for myself with only the forces under my command. Ruling Tremontane for seven years is better than nothing. I swear I’ll turn the Crown over to his Majesty at the end of that time.”
Willow regarded him carefully. She wished she had Rufus Black there to give her his insights. He had an uncanny ability to see to the heart of a man or woman. He would know if Lord Quinn was playing her for a fool. You need this man, she told herself, and you have to take chances in order to win. And for all she knew, Alric Quinn would turn out to be the right man for her to hand the Crown to. Maybe.
“All right,” she said. “You’ll be Regent—after we regain the Crown. I don’t like taking orders from anyone I don’t trust completely. Until Terence is defeated, I speak for the King and I control his army.”
“Unacceptable.”
“It had better be acceptable, or we’re leaving here without you. You’ve already incurred Terence’s wrath; do you think he’s going to leave you alone just because we’re not allied? You take the regency on my terms, or you get nothing.”
Lord Quinn stared her down. She returned his gaze coolly, though her heart was pounding and her palms were slick with sweat. Don’t let him see you flinch, Rufus said in memory, and she gripped his words like a steel rod fixed in a wall, steady and immovable.
“Very well,” Lord Quinn said. Willow had to hang onto her tranquility with both hands to keep from sagging with relief. “I will be Regent as soon as we defeat Terence. And what of you?”
She’d been so busy trying not to show her elation that the question caught her off-guard. “What about me?”
“You said you didn’t want the regency. What do you want?”
“I—” Words deserted her. “I want Felix to be safe. I want him to grow up to be a good King. I’ll take whatever role in his government lets me ensure that.”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who likes taking orders, period. I think it’s reasonable for me to want to know what kind of pushback I’ll be getting from you.”
Willow stood. “Lord Quinn,” she said, “I swear to you that once you’re Regent, I’ll let you do your job without interference.”
“Done,” Lord Quinn said. He heaved himself out of his chair and extended his hand to Willow, who shook it. It felt exactly the way sealing a bargain should. So why do I still feel anxious?
Lord Quinn bowed to Felix, who’d remained sitting while everyone else stood. “Do you accept your champion’s decision, your Majesty?”
“Willow’s not my champion, she’s my guardian.”
Lord Quinn eyed Willow. “Anyone willing to go into battle on your behalf is your champion, your Majesty.”
“Was this a battle, Lord Quinn?”
“Why don’t you ask Lady North later what she thinks about that?” His smile wasn’t very pleasant, and Willow’s mild disquiet increased. She pushed it away—no sense worrying about what was done—and bared her teeth at him. It probably looked like a smile to anyone not looking at her eyes.
“Call it what you like, Lord Quinn,” she said. “And…thank you for your allegiance.”
“I could hardly have done otherwise,” he said drily. “Will you and your people join us for supper? And I’d be pleased to give you shelter while we plan our next steps.”
“That would be most welcome, Lord Quinn.”
“Alric. Since we’re to be…colleagues.”
“Very well. Please call me Willow.”
The rest of the pleasantries that got them out of Waxwold Manor and back on the wagon passed in a blur. Lord Quinn—did she have to call him Alric, like he was a favorite uncle?—was a little too affable for her peace of mind. The idea she’d had, that he might eventually be the man who wore the Crown in Felix’s place, seemed ludicrous now. Lord Quinn was power-hungry, and if she’d had any intention of appointing a Regent for Felix, he wouldn’t be at the top of her list. But he was powerful, and brought a large army to Felix’s banner, and as long as she could keep him under control, he’d be an important ally. If she could keep him under control. That might take all her cunning and everything she’d learned from watching Rufus and his fellow dukes of crime.
She laughed. “What’s so funny?” Kerish asked.
“Just thinking of someone who’d think it was hilarious that I’m the champion of a King.”
“Are you my champion?” Felix asked.
“I guess I am.”
“But you’re my guardian too.”
“Willow can be both,” Claudia said.
“Apparently,” Willow said. “Now, let’s get back and pack up our things. I’m not too proud to admit I’m looking forward to a warm room with a real bed. One you can share with me,” she told Kerish, who’d looked about to say something suggestive.
“Well, if you kick me out, I have a feeling Richard Quinn’s door would be open to me,” Kerish said with a wink.
“Richard’s kind of…is there a word for ‘womanizer’ when it’s men?” Claudia said. “He has quite the reputation. I think Alric wishes he’d settle down and start a family.”
“Well, he won’t be notching his bedpost over me,” Kerish said.
“He would never make a play for a married man. Though he’s not above ogling.”
“I don’t understand,” said Felix.
“Maybe when you’re older,” Willow said, glaring at Kerish, w
ho’d begun to laugh. “Now, can we talk about something other than Richard Quinn?”
But she didn’t join in the new conversation, which was about all the animals Felix and Claudia had seen that morning. Instead, she remembered Lord Quinn’s face, how satisfied he’d looked at the end. Had she given away something she shouldn’t have? The memory stayed with her all the way back to camp.
Part Seven
Chapter Sixteen
Snow blanketed the roofs of Kingsport, covering their dark tiles with white and making the whole city brighter. Fat flakes tumbled from the dark sky and joined their brothers to fill the streets, where they were trodden underfoot by horse and man and wagon. Willow stood at her window in Waxwold Manor and looked out at the garden. The hedges and the rosebushes looked as if they’d been dusted with sugar, and the paths through the garden, still dark where the warmer earth melted the snow, seemed like grooves carved in marble.
She heard footsteps, and Kerish put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her close against him. “Come to bed. It’s warmer there.”
“I love the first snowfall. Hate the rest of them, but the first one is magical. Especially if you can see it before anyone’s walked over it and mucked it up.”
“I never get tired of snow. It’s so different from home.”
Willow leaned into him so he could wrap his arms around her. “Do you still think of Eskandel as home, then?”
“I think of wherever you are as home. But—yes, a different kind of home.”
She turned in his arms to face him and put her arms around his neck. “I still think of Aurilien as home, even though it’s likely I’ll never live there again, once this is all over. So I guess my home is you, too.”
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