“You’re safe?” Conard whispered, brushing Laina’s hair back from her face. “I was terrified you had come after me.”
“Not as frightened as I was,” Laina said. “I would’ve done exactly that, if not for my blasted ankle. I think I’ve sprained it. How did you escape?”
Conard drew back and gave her a fierce kiss. “Oh no! You’re soaked. Let’s dry ourselves by the fire, and I’ll tell you the full story. But first, how did you four end up here?”
After waiting for Conard and Laina to settle themselves on logs by the fire, Ian, Quentin, and Emerett knelt on the still-muddy ground.
“We headed for that cave you told us about,” Ian said. “We meant to find it and memorize its location, but when we tried to return to camp, the river had washed away the bridge. We headed back to the cave, and we’ve been sheltering there for the past day or so. I think someone let the story slip back at camp, because we saw about fifty other builders pass by just before we tried to head back to camp. They must be sheltering at the midway camp now.”
“And I couldn’t make it all the way to the midway camp after those guards threw me off Feather,” Laina said. “I crawled to the cave and spent the night keeping out of the rain.”
Conard squeezed her hand, grateful that she had been unable to risk her life for him.
“It’s lucky we came here,” Quentin said. “Might have saved our lives, in truth. Just yesterday, a mudslide tore Port Emerald off the hillside. Half the tents were crushed.”
A thrill of adrenaline ran through Conard. After all their scheming and manipulation, Lostport itself had stepped in and saved its people from Whitland. The triumph was quickly followed by dismay as Conard realized that his endless days of hauling bricks up the mountainside had been for naught.
“Now tell us how you escaped,” Laina commanded.
He grinned sideways at her. “Can you guess?”
“I haven’t a bloody clue.”
Conard laughed. “Fine. I give in. It was Jairus who rescued me, the Varos-damned lunatic. For all that he looks sour and grumpy, he’s the most honorable man I’ve ever met.”
“Your life in exchange for his life,” Laina said in wonder. “And where is he now?”
“On the road. He was planning to accompany me to the Twin Cities, but now he might just head to Varrival. He said he can’t do anything here, with the Whitish hounding him and all.”
“I’ll miss him,” Laina said, staring into the fire.
“Are you wishing I’d left and he’d stayed?” Conard tried not to let the bitterness creep into his tone.
“No! Never.” Laina put her chin in her hands. “He was a dear friend, and a man who had never quite found his place in the world. Nothing more. I had hoped Lostport might become a home for him.”
Ian, Quentin, and Emerett were determinedly not staring at Laina. Quentin poked at the fire, digging an ember from the ashes, and Ian rustled in his pack for more food.
“Are you warm enough?” Laina asked.
Conard shrugged. “I won’t die, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
She smiled mischievously. “Help me up. I don’t want these ruffians listening in.”
“Hey!” Ian said. “I consider myself an intellectual.”
“Conard’s the one who might or might not be a traitor,” Quentin said, elbowing Conard in the ribs.
Conard groaned as he stood, all of his muscles protesting at once. He grabbed Laina’s hand and pulled her to her feet, and she used him as a crutch to hobble a short distance from the fire.
“He was jealous of me,” Conard whispered as he supported Laina away from the firelight. “I was afraid you’d sent me to the builders’ camp just to keep me out of the way.”
“What?” Laina stopped so abruptly Conard nearly overbalanced. “You’re mad. I would have hidden you under my bed for the entire span, if I could have gotten away with it.”
Conard took her shoulders and turned her to face him.
“I know he was jealous,” Laina admitted after a pause. She put her hands on Conard’s waist and studied him. “But it was never a question for me. You have always been the only one. Always.”
“Even though you’re the future queen of Lostport?”
“I’m not.” Laina drew Conard closer; he was conscious of her every finger against his sodden shirt. “I made my choice, that night in the cave. I was never meant to be queen.”
Conard held Laina close and kissed her forehead. “Well, then, my not-queen, we have a right mess to sort out once we get home.”
“Do we ever.”
For a long time they stood in the dark, wrapped in one another’s arms, the wind hissing through the forest. As cold and hungry and sore as he was, Conard wished the moment would last forever. This could be his last simple day before everything changed.
“I nearly got you and Jairus killed,” Laina said. “And I’ve probably beggared this kingdom by promising supplies to Captain Drail. I’ll be surprised if my own father doesn’t send me to the Convict’s Caves the moment we return to Lostport.”
“He’ll be worried sick,” Conard said. “And if he does send you to the caves, I’m coming too.”
Laina kissed him and turned back to the fire, her arm tight about his shoulders.
Chapter 28
Day stretched into night as Faolan settled the displaced Lostporters in his garden and his home. Many had retreated into the woods around the settlement, some no doubt sheltering in structures that had escaped damaged, yet there were still far too many with nowhere to spend the night.
He was beginning to worry that something dire had befallen Laina, but now was not the time to search for her. Thousands of lives depended on his aid. He had to trust that Laina knew enough to keep herself from harm—that she was somewhere in the forest, cut off by the flooded rivers, rather than shipwrecked on a rock in a misguided attempt to save Conard.
A few intrepid villagers had already returned to the town, hoping to take stock of what remained and salvage what they could from the wreckage. Two had since returned with sacks of sweet potatoes and beans, which Mylo had cooked into a hearty stew. As the aroma wafted through the halls and onto the lawn, villagers began gathering close, silent and hopeful.
At last, Mylo sent his two remaining kitchen hands into the crowd of villagers to collect every cup, bowl, and plate they could produce. Then the food began appearing from the kitchen. It was passed down the hall, first to the invalids and the elders, and next to the youngest of the children. Mylo had concocted some sort of rich, filling stew, using the sweet potatoes and beans and every vegetable he must have found in his own stores.
So intently was Faolan watching the villagers receive their meal that he did not at first notice the young couple who approached him.
“Your majesty.”
Faolan blinked and realized a pair of muddy villagers was kneeling before him.
“You were lying abed when this was arranged, so it might have escaped your attention.” The young man stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “Your daughter suggested we hide our valuables in the woods, so we would be prepared if the Whitlanders attacked our village. Well, we just went around checking the safe boxes she arranged, and every one is still secure. Also, she was the one who prodded us into starting the patrol. We would’ve been burned in our beds if not for her. We owe the princess Laina our lives.”
When Faolan tried to respond, his throat tightened. Laina may have blundered her way through this political mess, yet she had done more good than she could know. He would have to thank her.
If she was still alive.
As the last red glow of sunset faded beyond the mountains, a group of muddy, limping Whitish builders appeared at the top of the stairs.
“We surrender to you,” their leader muttered, stumbling to his knees before Faolan. “We’ll go home as soon as possible, and we won’t trouble you ever again. Do you think you could spare us a bite to eat?”
“How many ha
ve accompanied you?”
Before the man could answer, a long string of Whitish men began clambering onto Faolan’s lawn, some collapsing as soon as they reached flat ground.
“A hundred, milord. More are returning later.”
“And has Queen Katrien remained in Port Emerald?”
The builder shook his head. “She’s down in Lostport, organizing folks. Says she wants us gone as quick as she can manage.”
“I will speak with the cook,” Faolan said. “As much as I wish to feed every man who arrives, I will not starve my own people in favor of yours.”
The man bowed his head, still on his knees. Faolan wondered if he had the strength to stand.
In the kitchen, Mylo was standing at a pot by the fire, furiously directing his own kitchen staff and ten volunteers from town in dishing out the stew.
“How goes the work?” Faolan asked. Every eye in the room turned to him; he sidled along the wall, not wishing to disturb their labor.
Mylo wiped sweat from his eyes with a stained sleeve. “We don’t have near enough bowls. The village-folk have been eating off rocks with their hands.”
“Will there be leftover stew?”
Mylo froze. “The Whitlanders have arrived, haven’t they?”
Faolan smiled grimly.
“I presume that means they’ve surrendered.”
“So they say. I have not spoken to Katrien yet, so I do not know the exact terms.”
Tapping his spoon against the side of the cauldron, Mylo said, “Well. Hmph. We won’t have enough of this stew, but I could dig up a few old potatoes and some dried beans. That’ll have to be enough.”
“We are all indebted to you,” Faolan said. He gave Mylo a half-bow, surprised at how strange the gesture felt, and retreated from the kitchen.
Passing unseen behind the lines of waiting villagers, he slipped into the darkened lawn to await Katrien’s return. Surrounded though he was by his people, Faolan had never felt more alone. While High King Luistan had spun his web and made a mockery of Lostport, Faolan had lain useless in his bedchamber, afraid even to watch as his kingdom crumbled around him. His people had no cause to thank him. Katrien and Laina were the true monarchs of Lostport, the heroes who had never given up hope.
If he had not been king, he would have abandoned the manor and sought his dear wife. She was the one remaining certainty in his world.
The extent of the damage would not become clear for days, yet Faolan knew Lostport had suffered a blow that could cripple the kingdom. He would almost be happy to step aside and hand the throne to King Luistan in exchange for aid.
This could spell the end for Lostport.
* * *
“The bridges are all down,” Quentin called, jogging back into sight. He had run ahead to assess any dangers in Lostport while Laina hobbled along with her arms around Conard and Ian’s shoulders, Emerett leading the way with his slope-shouldered stride.
Laina had spent the night in Conard’s arms. Though she could have faked her innocence and married a royal suitor still, she was beyond caring for propriety. With half the mountainside of Port Emerald swept away before her eyes and Conard so recently returned from the dead, her priorities had reshuffled themselves entirely. She would happily leave Lostport with Conard and settle for a simpler life; she had never been suited for the throne.
Then again, who was?
“Any people around?” Conard asked.
“There’s a couple hundred builders camped on the street, but half the buildings have burned down.”
“What?” Laina limped forward as quickly as she could. He was mistaken, surely….
Even before she rounded the last bend and came upon the flooded riverbank, Laina caught the stench of ash on the breeze. The two mills that had been perched alongside the river were gone, though one of the two mill-wheels remained intact, snagged by a low-hanging bush and lying sideways in the water. From where she stood, she could see only four buildings still standing. Three were stone structures, the fourth a solid log house whose thatch roof lay in charred fragments, littering what had once been a well-tended garden.
“Nine plagues,” Laina muttered. “Who did that?”
“Our own men,” Emerett said bitterly. “No doubt about that.”
“But on whose orders?”
The three builders looked at one another.
“Captain Drail was entirely, ruthlessly committed to finishing Port Emerald,” Ian said, his pale eyes narrowed. “Burning Lostport would have disabled his supply lines and forced him to forsake the project. He would not have done such a thing.”
“We need to get across this river,” Laina said. “Something has gone terribly wrong.”
“Everything’s gone wrong in this whole bloody world,” Conard said. “It’s taken you this long to notice?”
Laina swallowed a laugh. This was not the time for jokes, not when the builders might have marched on Lostport and killed everyone they found. Her safe-boxes in the woods seemed a joke now, with thousands of Whitlanders arrayed against her people and not one military defense in place.
The river looked tame now, sluggish and swollen with pasty brown water; Laina knew it well enough, knew it to be deep yet grassy this close to town. She had swam across this river and jumped from its bridges more times than she could count.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m swimming over,” she said. “This can’t be any worse than the ocean.”
“I’m coming,” Conard said. “My clothes are still wet from that puddle.”
This time Laina did laugh. Conard had offered to carry her over the puddle that morning, an offer she had refused as a matter of principle, only to discover that the water had subsided so it barely reached her knees.
“I hate water,” Ian fretted.
“You can stay by yourself, then,” Quentin said. “I want to see what’s happened.”
Blowing out a breath that hissed between his teeth, Ian shifted his weight from one foot to another. Though he held back and made no effort to remove his shoes, he eventually followed Emerett and Quentin into the water, yelping at the cold with each step. Though it ached, Laina trusted her full weight to her damaged ankle, afraid of getting swept away if she overbalanced.
The river was flowing deceptively fast, and before long Laina could no longer touch the bottom. At least she knew she would no longer catch herself on a hidden rock. With smooth strokes, she swam toward the far bank, her wet skirts trailing behind her. She was the first to grab hold of a knob of root that overhung the grassy bank, and she pulled herself in closer until she could drag herself out of the water. The river ran deeper on this side, too deep to stand, and when Conard joined her he struggled for a moment before lifting his knee onto the bank and hauling himself up.
Ian was not faring so well. His version of swimming was more thrashing than moving forward, and his face had gone bright red from the exertion. Quentin was patiently paddling along behind him, waiting to rescue him before the current swept him out to sea.
“Get a branch,” Conard said, fighting to untangle his foot from the roots.
Laina crawled farther up the bank and fetched a sturdy, twiggy branch, which she prodded into the river in Ian’s direction. Once he raised his head high enough to register the branch before his nose, he threw himself at it so suddenly Laina nearly pitched forward into the water at his weight. Conard, who had freed himself from the roots, grabbed her shoulder to steady her.
“No more swimming,” Ian gasped, sliding onto the bank and flopping onto his back.
Laina could not wait for him. Quentin and Emerett remained with Ian while she picked her way cautiously through the trees to the edge of town, leaning heavily on Conard. The closer she came, the worse the destruction appeared. Several groups of Whitlanders even had the nerve to pitch tents in the ruins of houses and shops, their tidy cook-fires making a mockery of the recent conflagration.
“We shouldn’t let them see us,” Laina whispered.
“To
o late.” Conard nodded at a cluster of men nearby. “I recognize them, but I couldn’t tell you their names.”
“Friendly or dangerous?” Laina stepped forward and held up her hands, making it very obvious she was unarmed.
“I don’t know.” A twig cracked under Conard’s boot. “Shit. That’s the man who whipped me.”
Laina bit her lip. It was too late to turn around now.
“Is Captain Drail nearby?” Laina called with far more confidence than she felt.
One of the men gave Laina a lewd whistle, but his companion punched him in the ribs and bowed to Laina.
“That’s the one who got us them blankets and rations.”
“Ye sure? She looks a bit young for a wee ambassa-dress.”
“I saw her walking into camp, you imbecile.”
That shut the other men up. Laina cautiously approached the men, her wet skirts clinging to her legs. “Who is responsible for this? I hope this town was not ransacked on Captain Drail’s orders.”
“Nay, was naught but a few men run amok.”
“Few hundred, more like.”
The first man spat. “Either way, they’re all dead now.”
“The queen’s down somewhere in town, organizing the new arrivals. She’s been evacuating us from Port Emerald, bless the dear lady. We’ve given our word to leave, soon as the ships are readied.”
Laina stumbled in surprise. After so many spans of intimidation and relentless demands, were the Whitlanders leaving as quickly as that? The townsfolk would not have stood a chance against thousands of trained soldiers. Some greater force was at play here, she was certain of it.
“We have to see my father,” Laina said, turning away from the first cluster of men.
“Didn’t they say your mother was in town, too?”
“I’ll talk to her if I see her.”
Conard tightened his grip around Laina’s waist. “I can guess what happened here,” he said slowly. “I witnessed part of it.”
Laina whirled. “Explain.”
“At first I was planning to follow Jairus to the Twin Cities. But our sailboat was wrecked in the river, and we climbed up on the bank. That’s when we ran into your mother’s followers. She had thousands of people from every corner of the Kinship Thrones behind her, men and women whose lives were in danger from the Whitish military. They reached Lostport in time to save the villagers, though I thought it prudent to vanish before I saw what happened next. I’m guessing your mother used them to intimidate the builders. That’s why they’re leaving. Half the kingdoms have turned against them.”
The Fall of Lostport Page 44