by Jayne Castel
“I … might start making plans,” Reoul replied, taking a cautious step back. “Can you make all the Anthor and Thûn enchanters as powerful as the lad?”
Gael inclined his head, smirking. “Aye.”
“Your Highness!” A leather-clad figure strode into the training yard at that moment, interrupting them.
The Anthor soldier had only covered a couple of feet when he halted abruptly, his gaze sweeping over the strewn, charred bodies. The man’s face paled, and his gaze snapped to Reoul.
“What do you want?” Reoul snarled, his temper fraying.
The guard raised his right hand, revealing a small scroll of parchment. “An urgent message has come from the northern border, sire.”
“Give it here then.”
The guard approached him, keeping his gaze averted from the smoldering corpses nearby, and handed it over.
Reoul snatched the goshawk message, broke the black wax seal—which heralded an urgent missive—and unfurled the scrap of parchment.
And as he read the message within, he forgot all about Gael’s rodent and his slaughtered men. An icy finger trailed down his spine, and he read the missive once more just to make sure he’d understood.
“What is it, Your Highness?” Gael asked when the silence drew out. “What news from the north?”
Reoul raised his gaze. After today’s display he’d planned to rid himself of Gael; the enchanter was too powerful, too ambitious. Yet he couldn’t now. Shadows take them all, he needed the bastard.
“Nathan has mobilized his army,” the king replied, a rasp to his voice. “He’s just hit The Royal Highway leaguefort and razed it to the ground. The Rithmar army is now marching south … Ninia of Thûn is with them.”
Gael frowned. “Wasn’t your son supposed to kill her?”
Reoul’s fingers tightened, crushing the message.
“Clearly, he failed,” Gael went on. “And now Nathan of Rithmar is enraged and looking for blood … yours most likely.”
Reoul drew in a slow, deep breath, seeking calm. He didn’t need the situation spelled out to him.
“This is our chance, Your Highness.” Gael took another step toward him, and the rat rose up on its hind legs, nose twitching, revealing a soft pink belly. “We are ready. Ride out to meet them and unleash your enchanters.”
“No,” Reoul replied, revulsion penetrating his rising temper, although this time he managed to master his body’s reaction. “Let them come to us. We will remain here and defend this city.”
“But if we meet them on the road you can push north after we defeat them … take Rithmar.”
“If Nathan falls before the gates of this city, his kingdom will be leaderless all the same. The north will be there waiting for me when I’m ready.” Reoul’s voice had turned soft and ice-cold. Behind him, he sensed Saskia shift nervously. She knew what such a voice meant—all who’d spent time with Reoul did.
But Gael evidently didn’t know, or care. Recklessly, he pushed on. “Why the hesitation, sire? We should strike when they’re at their weakest.”
A fire started to kindle in Reoul’s belly, a rising heat that he knew to be deadly. Gael’s enchanters would be of great use in the battle to come, but Reoul wished he’d had one of his assassins cut this weasel’s throat days ago. Gael had gone too far today.
“We remain at Veldoras,” Reoul said finally, enunciating each word as if speaking to a dull-wit. “We will fight them here.”
Not waiting for Gael’s response, the king turned to the guard who still waited a few yards away. Pale faced, the man was deliberately keeping his gaze fixed upon his boots. The stench of burning flesh was stomach churning now, but Reoul was too enraged to even notice.
Elias had failed him.
Nathan was marching on him.
And Gael was daring to question him.
“Get this mess cleared up,” Reoul ordered.
The guard nodded, his throat bobbing. “Aye, sire.” He then turned on his heel and marched out of the yard, almost running in his haste to be away from the carnage.
Reoul turned his attention back to Gael. “The Rithmar army will be here within the next four to five days,” he said, his voice expressionless. “We need to start preparing for the attack. You and the Veldoras enchanters will move into the Swallow Guard barracks. Return to the House of Light and Darkness and make the arrangements.”
Gael’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t used to being refused. He didn’t like taking orders from anyone, even kings.
“Did you hear me?”
The enchanter pulled a face. “Aye, sire. With respect though … I think you are making a grave mistake.”
“This discussion is at an end.”
Gael’s lips compressed, but he still didn’t move. The rat hunched on his shoulder, the hackles on its neck and back rising.
Saskia stepped up to Reoul’s side, her face hard. The fingers of her right hand splayed. She was readying herself to defend her king. With Reoul's personal bodyguard destroyed, she was the only one left.
Reoul was armed. As always, he carried many knives strapped to his body, as most fighting men of Anthor did. Yet he wondered if Gael had taken some Stynix before accompanying the young enchanter into the training yard.
Gael was a man to be wary of.
Even so, Reoul’s hand itched to draw the blade strapped to his right thigh and slash the enchanter across the gullet with it.
But if Ninia of Thûn was aiding Rithmar, he needed power to balance hers—and that meant that Gael was useful to him, if he would do as he was told.
The two men stared at each other for a heartbeat longer. Reoul’s body tensed, and he readied himself to fight. Then Gael gave a curt nod, spun round, and stormed out of the training yard.
Saskia turned to Reoul, her face strained, her gaze shadowed. “That’s man’s trouble, sire,” she murmured.
“Aye,” Reoul replied, his attention flicking back to where Gael and his loathsome pet had just disappeared. “As soon as we defeat Rithmar, I shall have him dealt with.”
26
Second Chances
RYANA REINED IN her horse, her attention riveted upon the flotilla of sailboats on the lake before her. A brisk wind scudded across the rough surface of the water, filling the sails. From this distance it looked as if a flock of birds had just landed upon the lake.
“The Witchmere regatta.” Elias spoke up beside her. “It’s a yearly event.”
Ryana tore her gaze from the boats and cast Elias an appraising look. Seated astride a heavy black destrier, she had to admit he cut an imposing figure. They were making fast progress south. The garrison commander had given them two horses and an escort of four men for their journey. They’d stopped at Thornmere the night before and, after leaving Witchmere, would need two more days to reach the capital.
Ryana was counting down the hours.
“Come on.” Elias urged his stallion forward along the lake path. “A tankard of cool ale awaits.”
The faces of the men following them lit up at this; it had been a long, hot day of travel. They were all sweaty and tired. Flies bothered the horses, buzzing around their ears and causing them to constantly switch their tails.
Ryana’s lips thinned as she urged her mount forward. As much as she longed for a cool drink at an end of the day’s journey, she dreaded the arrival of the evening. It meant having to spend time with this company of men. The four soldiers escorting them were brash and loud company, whereas Elias just put her on edge. He said little, yet she often caught him watching her.
Riding into Witchmere, Ryana’s attention shifted from her brooding thoughts to the town itself. She was struck by how different it was from Thornmere. The latter was built out on a giant pier over the lake, while Witchmere climbed the steep hillside in terraces. The buildings were all painted pastel shades: blue, pink, and green.
It was the prettiest town Ryana had set eyes on. Under different circumstances she might have enjoyed the ride along the cobbled
waterfront, past shop fronts with hanging baskets. Elderly women sat outside in the sun, peeling vegetables for supper, while crowds of townsfolk sat on the lake’s shingle edge, watching the regatta. Even the presence of Anthor soldiers here, a constant reminder of Thûn’s occupation, couldn’t dim the town’s loveliness.
The only thing to cast a shadow over Witchmere was its Altar of Umbra. The obelisk sat high on a plinth upon the lake’s edge, looking north. Every settlement, no matter how small, in The Four Kingdoms had one. They’d been erected during the time of The Shadow King and held a powerful enchantment that made it impossible to pull them down.
The altar was a dark stain on an otherwise beautiful summer’s eve.
At the eastern end of the waterfront sat The Dog and Duck, a three-storied wooden building painted the color of custard. Stabling their horses behind it, the travelers made their way into an empty common room. Most folk were still out watching the boating.
As he had the night before, Elias paid for three rooms: one for him and Ryana and the other two for their escort to share—and as previously, Ryana ground her teeth when the inn-keeper favored her and Elias with a knowing smile.
Only two days into the journey, and it was already becoming unbearable.
Elias ignored the inn-keeper’s smirk and ordered a round of local ale. He took a small booth in the corner, motioning for Ryana to join him, while the soldiers took a larger table in the center of the floor. Moments later one of them pulled out a pouch of dice, and they began to play.
“Do the men of your country do anything but play dice?” Ryana asked sourly as she watched them.
“Not much,” Elias replied. “Aside from a bit of drinking, swiving, and fighting.”
Ryana frowned. “They must end up gambling away their wages.”
“Something I also caught you doing at The Black Boar, if you remember?”
Ryana stiffened. She didn’t appreciate a reminder of that evening.
The tankards of ale arrived then. Elias took a deep draft before leaning back in the booth with a sigh. “Try not to look so disapproving,” he continued. “They don’t have much else to spend their coin on, this far from home.”
Ryana didn’t reply, instead taking a gulp of ale. It was delicious, with a sharp, hoppy aftertaste. Leaning back, she let her gaze travel around the common room. A few folk were starting to trickle in now, faces reddened from the sun and wind.
“We’re only a couple of days out from Veldoras,” she said when the silence stretched out between them. “What are you going to say to your father?”
His mouth curved. “I’m not sure … I’ll judge his mood, before I start speaking.”
“But how will you convince him to agree to peace?”
Elias scratched his chin. She watched his eyes shadow, saw the doubt there. “I’ll present him with the facts. Aside from land, my father also covets wealth. If he thinks it’s in his interests … he’ll negotiate.”
Ryana frowned. “And the agreements you made with Nathan … they’ll be enough?”
He held her gaze. “They’ll have to be.”
A soft melody drifted through the common room then. A lyrist had appeared and set himself up in one corner. Moments later the young man began singing a ballad about a lonely merchant who was doomed never to find love.
Ryana didn’t question Elias further. Instead, she focused on the music. Without realizing it, she started to tap her foot along to the song.
“I take it, you know this one?” Elias observed.
Ryana abruptly stopped tapping her foot.
“I find northern songs gloomy,” he continued when she didn’t answer.
Ryana pursed her mouth. “How so?”
“They’re all about loneliness and loss.”
“Not all of them are.”
“Give me an Anthor drinking song any day.”
Ryana snorted, letting him know what she thought of such songs. “Why am I not surprised?”
Silence fell between them for a few moments, before Elias spoke once more. “You should be … you hardly know me.”
Stiffening, Ryana met his eye. “Aye … you’re right about that.”
Elias frowned, and she thought he might contradict her, but instead he turned the conversation back to their plans. “Who’s stronger in a fight—you or Gael?”
Ryana’s pulse quickened. “He’s stronger,” she admitted, glancing away.
“You’re going to have to catch him unawares then.”
Ryana nodded. She thought about telling Elias that Gael had managed to sense her presence in The Caverns of the Lost a year earlier, but dismissed it. She didn’t feel like sharing such concerns with him; she’d figure out how to approach Gael by herself. She didn’t need this man’s help.
And yet, even seated across the table from Elias, she felt the familiar pull toward him. She was acutely aware of him, of his nearness.
Her continued attraction to him angered her.
Ryana took one more gulp of ale and pushed the tankard aside. “I’m tired,” she announced, sliding out of the booth. “I’m going upstairs.”
Ryana rolled over, huffing as she tried to get comfortable. There wasn’t much space on the pallet, for she’d erected a barricade of pillows down the center of the mattress. The last couple of nights, she’d ended up squashed against the wall.
However, it was preferable to being pressed up against Elias.
It was getting late, although she could still hear raucous, drunken laughter drifting up from the common room. A woman’s irate voice punctuated the laughter. The inn-keeper’s wife was telling someone off.
Ryana allowed herself a tight smile. She hoped it was Elias.
The creak of floorboards outside the door made her smile freeze. Elias was returning to their room.
She hated this part of the evening. She’d retire early and pretend to be sleeping when he entered. She’d keep up the pretense, forcing her breathing to slow, until she was sure he was asleep. Only then did she relax.
Light from the lantern hanging on the wall on the landing flowed into the room, followed by Elias’s heavy tread. The door closed gently, and he moved across the floor.
Facing the wall, Ryana squeezed her eyes shut.
She tried not to think of him undressing. On the first night at the leaguefort, she’d made a point of insisting he slept with some of his clothes on. She hadn’t cared that he’d laughed, only that he did as she asked. She hoped he still was.
The mattress dipped as Elias lowered himself onto it. Ryana clenched her jaw, clinging onto the far side of the bed. She wanted to sleep as far from him as possible.
Elias shifted around for a few moments, before he got comfortable—and then the bed-chamber went silent.
Downstairs, the inn-keeper’s wife was still tearing strips off some unfortunate. Ryana could barely make out the words. Finally, she could stand it no longer.
“What’s all the fuss about? One of your men causing trouble?”
Elias snorted. “So you’re awake after all.”
“It’s hard to sleep with all that noise downstairs.”
“It’s one of the locals … he groped a serving wench.”
Ryana didn’t answer. She wished she hadn’t let curiosity get the better of her. It wasn’t worth letting him know she was awake for that piece of inane gossip.
Silence stretched out between them. Ryana closed her eyes, willing Elias to go to sleep. Yet his breathing didn’t change. He was alert, watchful.
“Shadows,” Ryana finally muttered. “What is it?”
“Excuse me?” Again, she caught the amused edge to his voice.
“I can’t sleep with you lying there thinking.”
A beat of surprised silence followed.
“Do you want to know what my thoughts are, Ryana?” he asked softly. He spoke her name like a caress, and heat flooded through Ryana at the intimacy in his voice.
“No,” she choked out the word. “I’d rather we slept in
separate chambers.”
He heaved a sigh. “We’re not going into this again.” The mattress shifted as he rolled toward her. “I don’t understand why we have to have these pillows taking up half the bed. I’m not going to maul you.”
“I’m not sharing this sleeping pallet without them,” Ryana replied through gritted teeth.
Elias didn’t reply immediately. However, she could feel his gaze boring into her back, willing her to turn around and face him.
“Are we to be enemies forever then?” he asked finally.
“Aye.”
“Shadows, don’t tell me you’re the sort to nurse grudges?”
Ryana heaved in a deep breath, her anger rising. Grudges? The man had a nerve. “You deceived me,” she said, her throat tightening. “I don’t give liars second chances.”
27
Council of War
THE KING ROLLED out a map upon the table, placing stones at each corner. “This will be familiar to two of you here, at least,” he announced.
Ninia’s gaze settled upon the intricately-drawn map. “It’s one of my uncle’s drawings,” she murmured with a smile. “I’d recognize his hand anywhere.”
Nathan glanced her way. “He died in the siege?”
“No … around five years ago, of a heart complaint.” She looked back at the map, remembering how she’d perched upon a stool in her uncle Phelan’s studio, watching him work. He’d been a gentle man with a dry sense of humor; she’d spent more time with him than her own father.
Across the table Mira peered forward. She reached out, tracing the familiar coil of The Spiral Way with a finger-tip. “Veldoras,” she said with a smile. “There’s no city that resembles it. I used to mudlark on this canal.”
“Aye, the city’s layout has thwarted many attackers over the centuries,” Nathan paused there. “Until Reoul of Anthor.”
“Until last year, no one had breached The Swallow Keep since the time of Valgarth,” Mira confirmed, her brow furrowing. “Reoul will have it well defended.”