Like always, he thinks of brushing the solemn moment away, but then he lets the pretense drop. “Then what are we riding into?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
He wrinkles his nose and looks into the distance. “Can I ask a favor of you?”
“That depends on what it is.”
His answering chuckle makes me tingle, makes me want to say something humorous just to have him laugh again.
“Give me a token.” He says the words lightly, a bare smile on his lips. “Something insignificant, something you won’t miss.”
I think about it for a moment, and then I draw the knife from the pouch at his side. Just as I’m about to slice a small lock of hair, he stops me.
“Don’t cut your hair,” he says.
“I’m not overly fond of it right now anyway.” I give him a wry look, and then, feeling like a maiden from a bard’s tale, I cut a small section. “I won’t miss it.”
As I hand it to him, the dark lock shimmers to the color of wheat in the sun. I’m so startled, I drop the hair on the courtyard stones.
Irving’s eyebrows knit with disbelief as he kneels to examine it. “Well, that’s disconcerting.”
“Why would it do that?” I demand although I know Irving doesn’t know the answer any more than I do.
After several moments, he makes to pick up the fallen lock.
“Leave it,” I say, my voice clipped.
Slowly, Irving stands, and his eyes return to me. He pulls my hair forward, scrutinizing the section I cut. I only took off a few inches, and since I took it from the nape of my neck, it’s barely noticeable.
“It’s strange, but I’d almost say it’s darker than it was a few days ago,” he says. Then he shakes the thought away, his forehead scrunched. “Let’s not dwell on it. The whole hair as a token thing—it’s a slightly creepy tradition anyway.”
Despite my horror, a giggle bubbles past my lips. It feels good to laugh.
He takes a step closer, too close, and the laugh catches in my throat.
“Do you know what’s not a creepy tradition?” His words tickle my lips.
“What’s that?” I breathe, knowing I should back away.
There are too many men nearby, including my brother and my knights.
But I don’t care.
“A kiss for luck.”
I haven’t allowed myself to get this close to Irving since the night we almost married. It’s dangerous being this near him. I lose all judgment, all access to rational thought.
When he’s this near, with his short, light hair brushing against my temples as our foreheads touch, with his dark, laughing eyes staring straight into my soul, there’s nothing else.
Rising on my toes, I brush my lips against his in invitation. He must be more anxious about this outing than he lets on because he meets me with an urgency that takes my breath away. Lacing my hands together behind his neck, I melt into him. Every one of my muscles warms and relaxes until I feel as hot and carefree as if I were lying in a field of wildflowers on a summer day.
That lovely feeling ebbs the moment my brother clears his throat rather loudly from behind me.
I break away from Irving, my face flaming red.
“That’s quite the sendoff,” Rogert says, grinning with a wicked, teasing glint in his eyes. He holds his arms out. “What about a goodbye for your favorite knight?”
Irving tenses next to me and then slides his arm around my shoulder, making a quiet statement. Barowalt flashes Rogert a warning look, and the knight lowers his arms, laughing under his breath.
Choosing to ignore Irving’s proximity to me, Barowalt says, “You and Milly are not to leave the castle.”
“Why can’t we return to the villa?”
“All of our remaining knights are coming with me. It’s safer for you here.”
Not liking being told what to do, I cross my arms. “We could ride to Asher’s.”
Never mind that the unicorns are terrified of me.
My mind wanders to the lock of hair that changed back to the color I was born with, and I can’t help but wonder what dark magic I’ve been infected with.
“Don’t be difficult, Audette,” Barowalt says.
I give in because I don’t see any point in arguing this time. What difference does it make if I’m here or there?
“Barowalt,” I say as they turn to leave. “Be cautious.”
He nods once, mounts his horse, and rides toward the gates. Rogert follows, but Keven glances back at me. I give him a small smile. He thinks about it for a moment, but finally, he returns it.
It’s not much, but it’s something.
After Keven rides off, Irving shakes his head at the knight’s back. “I’m not used to such stiff competition.” He flashes me a smile. “You prefer roguish princes to brooding knights, don’t you?”
Yanking hard on his tunic, taking him by surprise, I pull him toward me. “Despite my better judgment, I seem to like you more than anyone.”
He raises an eyebrow, obviously enjoying his current position. His eyes glide to my lips, sending a wave of heat through me. “Good.”
***
Milly paces the sitting room that connect our chambers. She, too, is uneasy about the mission. Something feels ominous, something I can’t quite place.
The door swings open. Expecting it to be the tea we requested, I turn, ready to chastise the maid for not knocking. But it’s not a maid.
Grace’s hair is disheveled, and she looks absolutely exhausted. Letta tags in behind her, looking bored. Without a word, Grace slams an open book on the table between Milly and me.
“There,” she says, her voice full of certainty.
After Milly and I exchange a glance, we look at the page.
Milly’s eyes go wide, and she sits back. “What is that?”
I lean forward, my hands tingling as my breath quickens. Though I never truly saw the creature in the dark, there’s a recognition deep inside me.
The illustrated beast is easily as large as a dragon, black as night, and covered with plated scales.
“Ludrako,” I say, testing the word.
“L-u-drako.” Letta automatically corrects, making the “u” short.
I give the girl a questioning glance, but she only stares back.
“What is it?” Milly gasps, horrified.
Like a griffin resembles a lion and an eagle, the ludrako is a wolf-dragon. His body is strongly muscled, his head canine. But his back, legs, tail, and skull are covered in armored plates. Only his underbelly is furred.
Golden eyes shine in the picture, and even in the illustration, I feel as if they’re watching me.
“The ludrako is the rarest of the predatory magical beasts,” Grace reads. “Supposedly native to northern Waldren, the creature is rarely seen, and many believe it to be a myth. Its hide is encased in dragon-like armor that is virtually impenetrable, and its sight and sense of smell are heightened. Capable of sleeping for hundreds of years, it only rises from its hibernation when it scents magic nearby.
“Ravenous once woken, it seeks out magical beings and feeds from their essence. After an initial glut, it’s said that the ludrako will find a safe lair to restore its strength. Various cases throughout history have been recorded where humans have woken the beast to manipulate it for their own agenda. Like a dragon, it is a creature of reason and can be persuaded to attack in exchange for a steady supply of magic.
“Early reports state that entire blessings of unicorns have been wiped out by the beast, but considering the questionable existence of the hoofed creatures, and the little information we have on the ludrako itself, it’s impossible to know whether this is a beast of fact or fancy.
“Either way, it’s doubtful anyone in this age will ever encounter one.”
Grace looks up, her eyes triumphant.
“Do you know what this means if it’s true?” I ask no one in particular.
Milly looks pale. “We’re in a lot of trouble.”
/>
“That…and the girl from the village was lying.”
Grace narrows her eyes, thinking. “But why?”
I look back at the page, the illustration haunting me. I’m wondering the same thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“You’re strong, Princess,” one of the remaining knights says as I block his attack.
Quickly darting to the side, I acknowledge his praise with an unladylike grunt.
I haven’t even bothered to ask his name. He’s simply part of the endless string of knights and guards that I’m venting my worry on.
The men left yesterday, and we’ve had no word of them since. The bluffs outside Vallen Harbor are only an hour’s ride away. We should have had news. We should have had it yesterday.
King Edlund’s sent scouts to see what’s become of the group. Over breakfast, he mused that the wizard was gone and they’re trying to track his steps.
But I fear they ran into something much larger than they were prepared for.
We haven’t been able to tell the king about the ludrako because it would elicit far too many questions. So we wait and hope, praying the men will have approached the lair with caution.
I dance to the side, narrowly missing the knight’s blade.
Though my opponent is formidable, he’s nothing compared to the men I’m used to training with. Still, I feel as if I’m just recovering from a bout of sickness. I feel fine, but I’m weak. My muscles don’t respond as quickly as normal, or with as much speed.
As I turn, the tail of my dark braided hair catches my eye. I scowl, wondering why I’m so slow, why I’m tiring so quickly.
Eventually, after circling again for several moments, each of us studying the other for a weak spot, the knight catches me off guard. I fall, but before I crash on the hard cobblestones, he catches me around the waist.
With a hesitant smile, he rights me and takes a step back.
Sweat runs down my face, and I wipe it away with my arm. Milly, who’s dutifully watching from the side, glares at me, making a face as she tries to silently remind me to mind my manners.
I make a face back and gratefully accept the water a young page offers me.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” the knight asks as he leans against a nearby wall. He looks as exhausted as I feel.
At least I kept him on his toes. With how off I’m feeling, I can take pride in that.
“Barowalt,” I answer as I twirl the point of the sword on a stone. “And my father.”
As always, there’s a touch of sadness in my voice. But I’m getting better; I’m healing. Thinking of my parents no longer makes my heart feel raw. It doesn’t make my throat constrict.
“I’m sure Barowalt is proud of you.” After an awkward moment, he adds, “And I’m sure your father would have been as well.”
He says the last words with hesitation, so I give him a small smile so he knows I’m not offended.
After I’ve rested for several minutes, and just as I’m about to challenge the knight to a rematch, there’s a great commotion at the front gates. Trumpets sound in a warning cry, and the peasants standing about don’t seem to know whether they should find shelter or run to the gates and see what the ruckus is.
Before I even see them, my heart seizes.
The men have returned, but I doubt they’re bringing back good news.
I push through the crowd, determined to be at the gates when they enter.
Milly’s right at my back, and when she sees them, she lets out a muffled, agonized cry.
Barowalt’s in the back of a farmer’s cart that’s been hitched to a knight’s horse. His chest and torso are bloody, and he breathes in shuttering, labored intervals.
Terrified and shocked, I watch as they wheel my brother into the courtyard.
Milly races to him, demanding someone tell her what happened, but my eyes are frozen on Barowalt. Never in my life has he looked so mortal.
Chaos ensues around us, people yelling questions over each other, noblewomen rushing forward through the throng of peasant gawkers to find their husbands and fathers.
Suddenly jarring awake, I search madly for Irving. Only half of the group seem to have returned, and they’re all suffering injuries, some nearly as grim as Barowalt’s. I finally spot Irving toward the back, riding next to Javid. He looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him. Both the men’s horses pull carts, and I realize several more of the knights’ do as well.
Most are filled with the injured, but some of them are covered with thin canvas, hiding their loads from sight.
I suck in a breath as panic builds in my chest.
Now frantic, I search for my knights, my elite. I can’t find any of them. They should be at Barowalt’s side, helping the men who have arrived with a stretcher carry him to the court physician.
Where are they?
Irving dismounts, looking weary, and scans the crowd. Giselle reaches him before I do. She sets her hands on his arms, offering him comfort, but when he spots me running toward him, he brushes her off without apology.
I don’t take the time to look at her, to see if there’s a jealous glint in her eyes, but I’m sure there is.
Right now, I don’t care. Let her comfort her own husband.
Almost stumbling on a loose cobblestone, I run toward Irving, not caring how it looks. He opens his arms, and I leap into him. He returns my embrace and crushes me to his chest. He smells like blood and battle, and a hard lump forms in my throat, threatening to choke me.
“Are you hurt?” I demand, my voice breaking. I pull back roughly so I may check him over.
A nasty bruise grows above his cheekbone. His tunic is torn, the chain mail is smeared with dirt, and blood shows underneath.
“Not badly.” He pulls me back and buries his face in my hair.
“Barowalt,” I say, pulling out of his arms. The relief of knowing he’s safe soon fades as the fear that my brother might not see another morning claims me. “What happened?”
Irving’s face goes hard as he watches the servants and guards carry more knights to the infirmary. “We found more than a wizard.”
An anguished cry sounds over the rest, and we turn toward it. Several knights speak with Queen Clara, their eyes on the ground and their faces ashen. Clara turns to Edlund and grasps his tunic. Sobbing, the queen falls against him. The king looks stunned, unable to process the news he’s been given.
Two carefully-wrapped bodies are taken from one of the carts and carried into the castle. Though we don’t know who the men are under their shrouds, the crowd goes silent with horror. From His and Her Majesty’s reactions, I have an idea.
Giselle, turning their way after hearing the heart-wrenching commotion, scans the men who have returned, likely looking for Kent. Her eyes fall on her husband, and shock mars her usually regal features. Kent is transferred to a stretcher, and the princess’s eyes go wide as all the color drains from her face.
Her husband is conscious, but blood oozes from a hastily wrapped bandage around his chest. Hysterical, Giselle forgets Irving and runs to his side. Ugly sobs rack her body, and she follows him as servants carry him inside.
“What did you find?” I ask Irving, though I already know the answer.
Irving shakes his head at the memory and pulls me against him again. “A creature—a monster—I have no name for.”
***
Prince Aldus is dead.
So is the king’s brother, Prince Frederick. Fourteen of Ptarma’s knights have also been lost.
And we lost Rafe.
Keven, Rogert, and Hallgrave were brought in unconscious, and are now in the physician’s care, all suffering from the same blackness that stained my hair dark.
And Barowalt barely clings to life.
Suddenly, what’s always seemed a bit like playing with swords and traveling about, pretending to protect the unicorns, has turned into something much more solemn.
I watch, almost numb, as a bishop places a circle
t on Kent’s head. With a quiet, serious audience of grief-stricken nobles, King Edlund officially declares his nephew to be the heir to the Ptarmish throne. Both men wear dark shadows under their eyes, their pain on display for all to see. Edlund lost a son and brother, and Kent lost his father and his dearest friend.
Kent’s chest is wrapped, his face is pale and clammy, but he’s on his feet. That’s more than can be said for many of the men who ventured out on that fool’s mission.
Quiet applause echoes off the stone walls once the ceremony ends, and, slowly, we filter out. There’s quiet murmuring, but very few talk. The light Ptarmish castle has been cloaked in stifling sadness.
Giselle stands toward the back, too lost in her blubbering over losing two close members of Kent’s family to stay in her seat toward the front. She dabs her eyes with a handkerchief, but I see no sign of tears.
It may be callous, but I can’t help but think she simply wants people to pity her, to look at her and give her the attention she so obviously craves. Why isn’t she with her husband? Kent’s father and brother died the day before yesterday, and he’s been thrust into a position he never expected to take.
Her eyes flick to me and then they fall to Irving’s hand, which is clasped over mine.
Unable to help myself, I give her a haughty look, step closer to my betrothed, and sweep past her.
It’s no secret I blame her and the foolish girl who claimed to have seen the beast change to vapor—not that the girl is a good vessel for my wrath now. Nadia’s locked in the dungeons, much to her family’s dismay. After twenty-four hours, she still swears she only reported what it was she saw.
She might not know it, but the dungeons are the safest place for her. The king’s son and brother are dead. There are people who scream to have the girl hanged for her false witness.
It’s obvious to all now that the creature is not a conjured shadow. He’s not a vapor, not a mirage, but a beast of nightmares.
One who, once again, has disappeared.
Irving’s hand is warm in mine, and I cling to him like a lifeline. Silently, we walk through the halls. Irving doesn’t ask where I’m going. He knows.
Audette of Brookraven (The Eldentimber Series Book 4) Page 18