“Our?” I eyed him. “Will you travel with us?”
“You need someone to look after you, my lord. I’m afraid a sword in my hands will do little good, but I can be useful in other ways. If you wish to have me along.”
I didn’t bother restraining my grin. “Of course.”
“Very well.”
“Then it’s settled,” I said. “We ride for the Mynyth at dawn. And . . .” That blasted wave rose in my chest again. “Thank you, my friends.”
Most of the men were solemn. Several found their way over to the bar to order another round from Crawr. I stared straight ahead, planning. Thinking through every step that would need to be carried out the next morning. The guardsmen would be my official escort through Urian, so as not to draw suspicion. I would ask them for a few extra uniforms. We could pass off several of the farmers as soldiers too.
Not Breseth, though. I’d have to dress him up as my groom, or something.
Eny had handled all the details of our cover story, and with Naith gone from the city, there really wasn’t anyone to question the fib that we were traveling north to pay a call to the Governor of the Southern Highlands.
“Brac?”
I started at Celyn’s voice. “Ho, Celyn.”
“Can we speak?” She nodded to the fireplace nearby. “Alone.”
My stomach backflipped. She’d had that effect on me before. I smiled, aware all at once of the lopsidedness of my grin. “Aye. Course.”
I followed her to the fireplace and picked up the iron poker leaning against the hearth. The fire flared as I stoked it back to life.
Why did my hands suddenly feel too large? At least twice as large as they should be. Like mountainbeast paws had been attached where human hands ought to be.
The poker fumbled between my oversized fingers.
“Brac.”
I couldn’t avoid looking at her any longer. I set the poker back in its spot and met her gaze.
Hazel eyes—always earnest, always honest. They were fixed on me now, and there was no escaping. “I know you don’t want me to go,” she said simply.
“Just don’t want you to get hurt, Celyn. I’ve put enough people in danger.”
“You ever considered it’s my risk to take?”
I scratched my head but didn’t respond. Not just yet. I’d learned the wisdom of biting my tongue.
Least for a minute.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I said finally.
“Thanks.” She smiled a little.
“What happened?”
“Heart gave out while he was working in the fields.” Pain flashed behind her eyes, but her hearty farm-girl upbringing tamped down the tears. “Wasn’t nothin’ to be done. It was just his time. He hadn’t been the same since Mam died.”
Two years past, that had happened.
“Are you managing the farm on your own?” Celyn’s sisters were older and married already, tending to their own packs of wee ones.
“I’ve hired some help, but I manage.”
“What if something happens to you?” I stepped closer, pushing aside thoughts of my lopsided smile and too-big hands. I put one of those mountainbeast paws on her shoulder. “Celyn, what’s to happen to your father’s farm if I lead you to your death on this fool mission?”
She didn’t flinch. “Do you want to know why you lost Tannie, Brac?”
She didn’t flinch, but I sure did.
“Tannie wouldn’t have you because you didn’t let her make her own choices. You tried to cage her, and boy, did you pick the wrong lass for that. But if you want to know the honest truth, none of us like cages overmuch.”
A thick silence hung about us for a minute.
I finally broke it. “Isn’t it . . . supposed to be like you and your mate are a team, though?” I clawed at some sort of reason, some explanation for why I had acted as I did, other than me being wrong as a blossom in winter.
Celyn’s eyebrows lifted, and a wry smile twisted her lips. “And is that what you think you were with Tannie? You think you two were a team?”
No. We hadn’t been, I knew. I’d tried to bend her to my will. She had tried to tell me so many times—tried to tell me what she needed, what she wanted, and I never heard any of it.
“You’re right,” I said. “We was always talking past each other—chasing different things.”
Celyn turned her big hazel eyes up at me. “Let me be on your team.”
My stomach lurched, did a somersault, crashed into my boots, and vaulted back into place. “I—what?”
She seemed to be trying to hold on to a laugh. “I mean this team.” She gestured around the pub to the others. “Let me make my own choice here.”
“I . . . I don’t understand why you would want to.”
She watched the farmers gathered at the bar. “For my father.” Then she turned my way again. “And for you.”
“For me?”
“Dad and I came to hear you, you know. One of your rallies.”
We had only done one rally on the peninsula. Not too close to Pembrone. Naith had said it was because we couldn’t spare the time to travel so far. Now I wondered if he wasn’t making sure to keep me far away as possible from home, family, and the people who loved me most. So that no one could talk some sense into me.
Celyn and Rhys must have traveled to see me anyway.
“I didn’t know,” I told her.
“You didn’t see us. There were so many people.” She looked into the fire, the glow lighting her suntanned face. “So many people cheering for you, pledging their loyalty to you. My father . . .” She didn’t seem able to meet my eyes. “My father said you’d changed. He knew an ill wind blew and you were caught up in it. He grieved that. Grieved the loss of a son of Pembrone.”
Guilt swelled in my rib cage. “He knew I was making a mess. And now you want to help me undo it.”
She looked up at me. “Aye.”
I took her hand. “All right, then. Stars know I’ve made a mess of everything well enough. Let’s see what we can manage on the other side of the fence.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DIGWYN
Who am I?
Daughter of Lidere. Daughter of Sinau. Sister of Mor.
But what else?
How do we become who we are? Is it written in the stars, carved into the foundation of the earth itself, woven into the fabric of time?
Or are we molded, shaped, hewn by our experiences? Do we all start as the same blank slab of marble, chiseled away over time by a moment here and another there—this flash of pain, that heartache? Then polished smooth by seasons of love and tenderness, happiness and warmth.
If such things exist.
Or perhaps . . . perhaps we decide who we are. Perhaps I get to say, “This is Digwyn En-Lidere. She is who I say she is.”
I wish it were so.
It seems truer that we are merely buffeted about on the sea by life, circumstances, the choices of others.
Or else . . . or else who we are is written deeply within our blood.
So, who am I?
His lantern light fades, and I slip from my hiding spot.
Again.
Always.
I have been following him a long time.
A lucky happenstance, running across him in the first place.
Or fate, perhaps.
Either way, I follow. I duck in and out of the shadows as he patrols.
A soldier.
Not one dressed in black, the way they used to at the palace. And not the red and drab green of the steward’s men.
This one’s uniform is darkest gray. And the way he walks—it’s clear he’s comfortable here. Familiar. This is his home.
One of the Master’s soldiers.
I watch as he stops again. Stretches. It seems I have been following him for hours. I’m tired too.
He draws a deep breath, and I see my chance.
Just as his eyes drift closed on his exhale, I spring from the shad
ows.
I have his back and my dagger is out, blade at his throat, before he has time to cry out.
He gasps.
“Quiet,” I breathe in his ear.
He swallows. Nicks his throat on my blade. “What do you want?”
“Very little.” I give a slight laugh, and I feel him tense up even more. “Small favor.”
“What?” he manages.
“I want to visit your Master.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
BRAITH
The doors to the cavernous room opened, and Braith started awake. A stream of fire sailed through the air and lit one of the torches resting in a wall bracket.
It was the way the former queen announced her arrival each day.
“Good morning, my darlings.” Frenhin strode into the room, firelight twinkling off her gown. “Hungry, are we? Breakfast is on the way. I hope porridge and water suits. Does it? Excellent!”
Braith glanced across the room at Kharn. He was awake, but his mouth was clamped shut. They had learned many days ago that it was best to just let Frenhin talk as much as she liked. She would eventually tire and leave them to themselves.
Unless she was in the mood to have Kharn beaten.
“Dears, today is a special day,” Frenhin said as she settled onto her chair.
Oh no.
A special day in Frenhin’s opinion might be a final day for Braith and Kharn.
“Shall I keep you in suspense?” Frenhin snapped her fingers, and an attendant brought her a goblet of wine. She watched Braith for half a moment, then glanced at Kharn. “No? Oh, you two have lost your humor. How unfortunate. Very well, then.” She beamed. “We have a guest.”
Braith dreaded the revelation of who was about to join them.
“Braith, darling, I thought you would particularly enjoy this guest.”
Yestin? Cameria? Tanwen? Did her mother wish to beat the poor old scholar, Master Insegno, again? Her stomach pinched. Was it Dray?
She didn’t have to wonder long. Frenhin nodded to the guards by the door. They ushered in a man bent in half as he sought to bow before Frenhin and walk at the same time.
But it didn’t matter that Braith couldn’t see his face. She knew his clean-shaven head and embroidered robes by heart.
“Naith Bo-Offriad,” she said aloud.
Her mother’s ally. That she knew. But even as he stood before her, her perception of him clear for the very first time, Braith couldn’t seem to muster any anger.
Only pity.
“Master.” Naith dropped to his knees and pressed his face into the floor before Frenhin. “Master, it is such an honor to see you unmasked at last.”
Interesting.
And indeed, now that Braith looked, it was clear Frenhin had taken special care with her appearance.
Her pale hair, blonde streaked with gray, hung in perfect waves all the way to her waist. So like Braith’s. But Frenhin had always been prettier—at least Braith thought so. Frenhin’s age showed in tiny lines around her eyes, but she knew how to care for herself. How to apply makeup to highlight her best features. How to dress to accentuate her still-lovely figure.
In her royal-blue satin gown with a beaded corset, she cut a striking, if strange, figure in the cave-like hideout.
“Rise, Naith.”
The high priest obeyed.
Frenhin looked pleased. Truly pleased. “It is good to be unmasked before you, Naith.”
Naith wiped tears from his cheeks. “It does me so well to see you in such spirits, Master. So well, indeed.”
“What’s not to be pleased about, Naith?” Frenhin nodded to where Braith and Kharn sat in chains.
Naith turned and staggered back, as if noticing them for the first time. “Cethor’s tears.”
Frenhin waved a hand. “Happier news, Naith. Tell me of Urian. How fares the steward?”
“Ah yes. That. The steward, Brac Bo-Bradwir, is still . . . besieged, as it were.”
Frenhin’s good humor drained in an instant. “Besieged?”
“I spoke of it to you. You remember.”
“Yes,” Frenhin snapped. “I remember. I also remember you telling me you had him well in hand.”
Naith fell to his knees again. “I needed to see you,” he whined, reaching for the hem of Frenhin’s gown. “I needed to be in your presence. I needed to get away from there for a while. I thought . . . well, I thought he would remain steadfast, at least until my return.”
“But?”
“But last night, as I reached Ir-Golyth just before sundown, I received word via carrier bird. One of our swiftest fliers brought a letter from an ally in the palace informing me the steward had left Urian.”
“Left?” Frenhin’s eyes blazed. “Left and went where?”
“The story is the boy rides to meet the Governor of the Southern Highlands.”
Frenhin’s lips pressed together until they whitened. “But that isn’t true, is it?”
“He would have no reason—nor inclination, for that matter—to meet with any of the governors or territory stewards or lords.”
“And that means?”
“I believe . . .” Naith hesitated. “I believe it’s possible he has abandoned his post and fled.”
Hope flared in Braith’s chest.
“Rise, Naith.”
Naith obeyed. Frenhin backhanded him across the face, and the high priest cried out.
“Fool! We need him! We’ve spent moons crafting him into the figurehead the people want!”
“I’m sorry, Master!” Naith cried, clutching his cheek. “But perhaps the timing is fortuitous. Is it not time for you to emerge as the true ruler of Tir? Openly once again, and this time, without Gareth to take credit for your work?”
Frenhin pursed her lips and combed her fingers through the ends of her pale locks. “Yes,” she mused. “It is true that—”
A shout from outside the cavernous room interrupted Frenhin’s words.
“I swear by the stars,” a small, sharp voice shouted, “I’ll kill him if you don’t let me pass!”
The guards just inside the door drew their swords, and Frenhin craned her neck. “What in blazes—”
“Move!” The small voice again—a woman’s.
“Goddesses’ sake, do what she says!” A man.
A moment later, two people shoved into the room past the guards.
A small woman—perhaps just a girl?—had one of Frenhin’s soldiers around the neck with a blade at his throat. A trickle of blood ran down his skin and disappeared into the gray of his tunic. She used his body to block potential strikes from the guardsmen, and they all seemed wary of putting their fellow in harm’s way.
“What is the meaning of this?” Frenhin demanded. “How dare you assault one of my soldiers? State your purpose.”
The young woman hissed in the soldier’s ear. “Tell her why I’m here.”
He remained stiff, moving only his mouth. “She says she wants to see you, Master.”
Frenhin narrowed her eyes. “Why? Who are you?”
“Digwyn En-Lidere.”
Lidere. The name struck like flint on stone, and Braith’s memory flared. “En-Lidere?” The same blue eyes, dark hair, and olive skin.
This was Mor Bo-Lidere’s sister.
Frenhin’s eyes lit—wild, excited.
Hungry.
“We meet up close at last,” Frenhin said. “I have only watched you from a distance, my dear—from the deck of an ill-fated ship, I’m afraid. I couldn’t see you, exactly, but I saw what I believe was your handiwork. Impressive, unusual things happening to the strands of those rebel weavers.” She smiled. “But why, pray tell, would the daughter of Lidere want an audience with me?”
“I’m here to pledge my loyalty to you.” The girl lowered her head slightly while maintaining her grip on the man. “Master.”
No. Mor’s sister? How could she?
Frenhin laughed. Then she narrowed her eyes at Digwyn. “Prove it.”
T
he girl frowned. “How?”
Frenhin lifted a hand to hold back her other guards awaiting her command. She kept her focus on Digwyn. “Dispose of that man.”
The girl didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think.
She dragged her blade across the throat of the soldier—deep and decisive. The guards at the door started forward on instinct.
“Do not come closer,” Frenhin ordered.
The girl pulled a rag from a pocket in her shorts and began wiping the blood from her dagger.
The soldier slumped to the floor at Digwyn’s feet, his hands clutching the wound in his throat.
Braith let out a dry sob and turned away toward Kharn, whose face was a mask of dismay.
“Well, this is unexpected, indeed.” Frenhin beckoned Digwyn forward. “Come here, child.”
Digwyn hesitated for the first time since she had entered the room. She stepped over the body of the downed soldier and took another step toward Frenhin, then stopped.
“Say your name again, my dear. I want to hear it.”
“Digwyn En-Lidere.”
“Is it true, then? You are the one?”
The one who what?
But Frenhin thrust her hands forward. Two streams of fire shot out, one from each palm. Straight toward Digwyn.
Braith cried out, but Digwyn reached up and snatched one stream from the air, then spun and grabbed the other. Plumes of fire, gripped in her bare hands. She spun again and jolted her fists. The ribbons of fire turned solid—two daggers with flames licking across the blades.
Frenhin cackled. She tossed her palm up toward the ceiling, and a swathe of fabric like a delicate scarf waved into the air.
Digwyn didn’t pause. She adjusted her grip on one of the flaming daggers, then threw it, end over end. It pierced the fabric in midair. The guards by the door scattered just in time to avoid the blade as it thunked into the wooden door, the scarf pinned there like a banquet decoration.
“It is you.” Frenhin’s voice sparkled with delight. “The one from the island.”
“Aye.”
“And why have you come to me, child?”
“I tried,” the girl said. “I tried to be what my brother wanted me to be. But . . . I think I’m broken. I came to you because . . . if I can’t be fixed, I want to be strong. Strong enough that no one will ever hurt me again.”
The Story Hunter Page 21