by Kara Jaynes
Grace flushed, caught in a potential misstep. Her father wouldn’t approve of Bran. “Aaric trusted them, and I trust Aaric.”
“Ah yes. The inventor.” Lord Flores nodded. “He was a bit off in the head.”
“Most brilliant people are,” Grace retorted, with a meaningful glance at her father.
Lord Flores chuckled good naturedly. “Fair enough.” His expression grew concerned again. “But I don’t have Aaric’s faith in them. We’ve done enough in our past to give the nomads reason to hate us. What better revenge than to steal Ruis’ children?”
Biting her lip, Grace thought about it. He was right, it did look suspicious, but they wouldn’t do that. Bran wouldn’t.
Her father stood, patting Grace on the head. “Don’t fret, Gracie. You and your mother will be safe. I promise you that.”
“I’m not worried about myself,” Grace protested, standing with him. “I’m not a child.” She pouted at her father’s grin, and folded her arms defensively. “I’m not.”
“I know you’re not,” Lord Flores said soothingly, stepping away to look out a window. “But things are changing and the streets are getting more dangerous by the day. Just be careful.”
Grace thought about what her father had said long after she’d left his study, and resolved to ask Bran about it the next time they met.
14
Bran
Bran woke the following morning with a big grin on his face. The masquerade social had been a complete misery, but the evening’s ending had finished satisfactorily enough.
He pushed his blankets off himself and stretched. Rising, he snatched a shirt off a discarded pile of laundry in the corner of his tent and got dressed.
The nomad was still smiling when he pushed the tent flap aside and went outside, donning his cloak. He’d woken later than usual and breakfast was already underway. Family and friends mingled over their meals, talking and laughing. A few greeted him as he walked by, but a few watched him with dark looks. He couldn’t for the life of him guess why, but let it slide.
He walked to Kenroc’s campfire, same as he always did. Adaryn’s father was eating and handed Bran a plate heaped with fried eggs, bacon and thick slices of toast. “Morning.”
Brushing the snow off an old tree stump and sitting, Bran dug in, cramming bread into his mouth. Nomad fare was much simpler than that of Ruis, but it was heartier and more satisfying.
He thought about Grace. Heavens, but she’d looked smashing the night before. Course, she always looked smashing.
“So.” Kenroc spoke slowly, carefully considering his words. “You went into Ruis last night?”
“Yeah,” Bran spoke around a mouthful of eggs, trying to sound casual. “Spying on the nobles.”
“Anyone in particular?” Kenroc’s voice was bland.
Bran shook his head. “Not really. I think I’ll keep spying on them though. I don’t think they mean us any harm if we stay away, but it can’t hurt to be careful.”
Kenroc sighed heavily, putting his own plate aside. “You’re a terrible liar, Bran.” The disappointment in his voice was evident. “Your father had his flaws, but he wasn’t a liar.”
Bran stared at him, thunderstruck. How could he have known? The answer became quickly clear.
Donell stormed over, his face a perfect mask of fury. He planted himself in front of Bran, fists clenched. Bran stood up to meet him.
“You traitor,” the younger man spat, his face flushed with anger. “You consort with the enemy behind our backs.” He jabbed a finger at Bran’s collarbone. “How could you do this to us?”
Bran felt a flicker of unease, but tried his best not to show it. “What are you talking about?”
“The Ruis wench, Bran.” Donell’s face was twisted in disgust. “You were acting strange, so I followed you last night.”
“You spied on me?” Bran spluttered with indignation. “I’m the clan chief!”
“Which makes your behavior all the more disgraceful,” the redheaded man retorted. “When I saw you enter an Oppressor’s mansion, I initially applauded you for your boldness; no Oppressor would suspect a masked nomad in their midst. But when you came out with that blonde strumpet on your arm, I knew your real reason for going. Skies that be, Bran, you basically killed your father for this—”
Donell didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence. Bran punched him in the face so hard the younger man staggered and fell.
“Don’t mention my father ever again, Donell.” Bran took a shuddering breath, trying to calm the white-hot rage that coursed through his blood. “You have no idea what it was like to—” He took another breath, trying to calm himself. He’d tried so hard to wipe the memories of his father out of his mind. They were too painful to remember. A crowd of clans-people had gathered around them, watching silently.
Donell pushed himself up and stood, wiping blood from his nose. He glared balefully at Bran. “It’s over,” he mumbled, and spat blood into the grass. “I’m done with this.” He turned and stalked off.
“Where are you going?” Bran barked.
“I’m leaving!” Donell yelled back. “You’re not my chief.” He addressed the crowd. “Anyone who wants to come with me is welcome. I won’t lie to you, and I won’t betray you. I’m a nomad, not a whipped dog for the Oppressors!”
Bran’s lips peeled back in a snarl and he took a step forward, fists raised, but Donell never looked back. The younger man strode away through the crowd. Bran was dismayed to see many follow him.
Casting his gaze about, Bran saw Kenroc standing several feet away, arms folded across his chest. “Are you going to leave too?” Bran asked, his voice harsh.
Kenroc shook his head, his eyes sad. “What will splitting the clan further solve?” He stepped forward. “Make this right, Bran. You owe it to your people.”
Bran turned to face the crowd. They didn’t say anything, but their faces showed a mix of emotions: Anger, uncertainty, fear, mistrust and disappointment. Kenroc was right. Bran had to show he could be the clan chief they needed. The clan chief his father was. He needed to protect them.
“I . . . I am sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say, but everyone still watched him expectantly. “I take my role as clan chief seriously, and temporarily allowed matters of the heart to get in the way of my duties.” His spirit sank lower with every word. “We will go south, to the city of Sen Altare. Down there, the prejudice against our people is not as strong. We will start preparations now, and leave in two weeks.”
His voice cracked on the last word, but his statement caused considerable excitement. Some still looked doubtful, but many were smiling now, and the crowd dispersed.
Bran stood still as stone. Kenroc came up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You did the right thing.”
Bran didn’t answer. He already felt a thousand miles away from Grace.
15
Grace
Why hadn’t Bran come?
Grace sat in the parlor with her mother and father over tea. Her mother chattered on about the latest gossip. Grace tuned it out. It’d been nearly two weeks since the Winter Social, and she hadn’t seen Bran once since then.
She thought about their kiss, her face warming. They’d kissed before, but perhaps that kiss had been a little too forward. Surely he wouldn’t stay away because of that.
“Are you feeling quite all right, dear?” Her mother interrupted her thoughts, leaning forward to peer intently at her daughter. Her hair was stick straight and thin, but every bit as blonde as Grace’s, put up in an elegant bun. “You look a little flushed.”
“I’m fine, Mother,” Grace insisted, feeling her face heat further. Why did parents always notice the things one didn’t want them to notice?
“You’ve hardly touched your meal,” her mother countered. “Eat.”
Grace smiled—it felt like a grimace—and bit into a sugared cake. Perhaps the clan had found out he’d been visiting her. She thought of the red headed young man, the one wh
o’d tried to kill her, and shivered. He frightened her, though she wouldn’t want to admit that to anyone.
The door to the parlor opened and Polly stepped inside. The nomad servant bobbed a quick curtsey. “Miss Annabelle Fontei is here to see Miss Grace, my Lord.”
She hardly got the words out before the young woman appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands.
On hearing Annabelle’s name, Grace rolled her eyes, irritated to see her, but then noticed her friend’s expression. Annabelle’s complexion was red and splotchy, her eyes swollen from crying. When she saw Grace, her friend rushed across the room and into her arms.
“She’s gone, Grace,” she sobbed. “She’s gone! I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Who?” Grace asked, bewildered.
“Amees.” The young woman was completely hysterical, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My sister is gone!”
Amees was only five years old. Grace exchanged glances with her father. Apparently the disappearances were now happening in the upper district of the city too. The other magistrates would want to get involved now.
“Don’t fret, Miss Annabelle.” Lord Flores stood, every inch of him exuding the authority of head magistrate. “I’ll go talk to your father and the magistrates of the city. We’ll find your sister.” His eyes were hard. “Whoever is responsible for this will pay.”
Grace watched her father leave, her mind racing. She’d planned on waiting until Bran came to her, but there was no time. She shivered again, thinking of the redheaded rover, but then put him out of her mind. She was going to have to go to Bran herself.
16
Grace
This was a bad idea. Grace was utterly lost. She’d done well enough leaving the city and finding her way to the woods, but once she’d crossed the forest threshold, it was only a matter of minutes before she’d lost her way.
“Perhaps this will lead me to his camp.” She urged her horse to the left, down what she assumed was a hunting path of sorts. She couldn’t be quite sure. She continued talking aloud. “This looks right, I think.” She was already feeling decidedly spooked and her voice was the only thing keeping her from losing her nerve completely.
Her father would be furious if he found out what she’d done. She sighed, slumping in her saddle. Not ‘if’ he found out; when he found out. Father was no fool and would ferret an answer out of the city’s gatekeepers before too long.
It began snowing again, the last remains of daylight fading quickly. Her white mare, Blossom, picked her way through the damp foliage while Grace drew her cloak tighter around herself, unsuccessfully trying to ward off the cold. Drat that man, the things I do for him.
A man appeared in front of her, so suddenly her horse snorted in alarm, prancing backward a few steps. Grace had brought her parasol. It held a concealed blade, and Grace clutched it like a lifeline. She peered anxiously at the dark figure before her. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t see his features well enough to tell.
“Who are you?” The man’s voice was familiar, but not Bran’s. He lifted a hand, fire springing from his fingertips to make light.
Grace almost fell off her saddle in relief. It was Adaryn’s father, thank the heavens! She hardly knew him, but enough to know he was safe as far as nomads went.
“You there,” she said, trying to sound dignified. She was all too aware of the dampness of her clothes and the way her wet hair stuck to her face. She must look dreadful. “I remember you. You’re Adaryn’s father. Senric?”
“Kenroc.” The voice was expressionless, and by the light, his face held as much emotion as a stone. “And you’re the Oppressor woman.”
That was hardly a flattering title. Grace drew herself up, chin in the air. “I am Miss Grace Flores, daughter of Lord Flores, head magistrate of Ruis, thank you very much. I request an audience with Bran. At once, in fact.”
“Go away.” Kenroc was already turning away, walking back into the trees. “Bran is better off without you.”
“See here,” Grace protested, heeling her mare forward. “You can’t just ignore me like that. This is a matter of most importance. Come back!”
“I said, leave.” There was no mistaking the threatening tone in the man’s voice.
Grace switched tactics immediately. “Senric, please—”
“Kenroc.”
Whatever. “Kenroc. Please.” Grace slipped out her saddle. She’d tried to land lightly on her feet, but got tangled in the wet undergrowth and fell. The wretched rover didn’t even offer her his assistance.
Getting to her feet she stepped closer to the older man. Kenroc watched her warily, the blue flame still flickering in his hand. Grace wanted to touch it, to see if it held warmth, but restrained. “Children are disappearing in Ruis. My father thinks you are to blame.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Kenroc snorted. “We’re not so barbaric as to keep slaves, especially children.”
“I know that, but the magistrates in Ruis sure as fire do not.” She tried not to fidget, looking up into the older man’s face. Blast it, why did men have to be taller? “If they decide the nomads are to blame, Ruis will fall on your camp like an avalanche.”
“Why are you here?”
Grace stared at him. She couldn’t tell him the obvious reason—that she was head-over-heels in love with Bran—and spluttered for a moment. “Well, I believe in fairness. Your people deserve the benefit of a doubt until proven guilty.” She really didn’t want Bran to get hurt.
Kenroc’s lips quirked in a mirthless grin. “So Bran isn’t the only bad liar, it seems.” He took Grace’s mare by the reins. “Stay close to me. You’re lucky I’m the one who found you. Not all of the nomads are as tolerant of Oppressors as I am.”
Grace shuddered and took his advice, walking as close to him as she could without being improper. She studied the man out of the corner of her eye. Tall, but with narrow shoulders, there was definitely something in his movements and facial features that reminded her of Adaryn.
“Have you heard from Adaryn?” she asked, hesitantly.
“No,” was Kenroc’s curt reply. In the flickering light of the enchanted flame, Grace saw his jaw tighten. He worried about his daughter.
Grace kept silent after that. She hoped the nomad camp wasn’t too far.
17
Bran
The clan chief lay in his tent, stripped to the waist, reading a book. Trying to, anyway; his mind kept drifting from the story. Blast it, but being a chief was hard. Bran had always been willing to do anything for his people, and was loyal. But there was a big difference between being the clan chief’s son and being the actual clan chief. And ever since the destruction of the tower, the majority of the nomads had come together as one big tribe.
Bran tossed the book aside. He was too tired to read. He wondered how his father had managed to run things so smoothly. It felt like every time he solved a problem, two more popped up in its place. The details and preparations that needed seeing to in order to leave for Sen Altare seemed endless.
Sen Altare. Bran winced. Going south was really the last thing he wanted to do. He knew Grace occasionally visited her aunt, but that definitely wasn’t the same as seeing the slim beauty every week.
He grunted, irritated. Seeing her only once a week wasn’t what he really wanted either, but if the clan knew he wanted to marry an Oppressor, he’d be tossed out on his nose.
Would that be better, maybe? He didn’t enjoy the heaps of responsibility. Kenroc would be much better suited to be the clan chief. Perhaps Grace was right; running away looked like their only shot for a life together. She said women in Ruis didn’t need their father’s permission to marry, but Bran had seen a glimpse of the head magistrate at the social, and he looked like a man who wouldn’t allow his daughter to settle for someone less than blasted royalty.
Bran thought fleetingly of Aaric and Adaryn. They hadn’t let anything come between them. They’d faced each obstacle as it came and defeated them. Nothing had been more
important to them than their love. He ran a hand distractedly through his hair. Problem was, he loved Grace, but he loved his clan, too, and he didn’t know which was more important. But by leaving the north, to go to the southern city, he was beginning to think he’d made his choice, however much it hurt.
“Bran.” Kenroc stuck his head through the tent flap. “We need to talk. Someone is here to see you.”
“Come in,” Bran sat up, and motioned the older man to enter with a wave of his hand. The chief’s tent was large enough to fit several people inside. “Who needs to see me?” The question stuck in his throat as a young woman with blonde curls, damp from the snow, crawled inside. She was wearing a loose-fitting white shirt—big enough that he suspected Lord Flores might be missing a shirt from his wardrobe—and form-fitting black trousers that were definitely not Lord Flores’. They fit her like a glove in all the right places. His face warmed when she caught him looking, and he averted his gaze. “Miss Grace.”
“‘Miss,’ is it?” She frowned at him. “Why haven’t you come to see me?” She had stood, and now frowned fiercely down at him, hands on hips. “It’s been nearly two weeks!”
“We’re leaving, Grace.” Bran kept his eyes on her face, worried his gaze would wander. If only she could have been born a nomad. “We’re finishing up preparations and we’re going to travel to Sen Altare.”
Grace plopped herself down on the blankets beside him, pulling her heeled boots off. They were full of water and she dumped them unceremoniously on the canvas floor in front of her. “I never thought you a coward, Bran, yet here you are playing the chicken.”
Bran blinked at her. “What?”
She glanced at him, her expression wry. “I’m going to venture a guess and say the clan found out about us, and you couldn’t take the heat.”
“That’s not it at all.” Bran scowled at her. He folded his arms across his chest, and froze when he saw her gaze rove appreciatively over his chest. He grabbed the shirt he’d discarded earlier and pulled it on, ignoring her laugh. He dimly recalled a memory where he’d found Adaryn standing in nothing but her shift. He’d found it amusing, then. “I have a duty to my clan, Grace. And it’s time we’ve traveled south again. We’re nomads. We’ve been up north too long.”