“And Pete smiled, wise at the young age of thirty-five, and told me to learn from the children in the Order. They didn’t have a choice but to grow into their new lives. The Vala-blessed ones and the fighters, both of them adapted fast and got a role, a purpose because of the choice that was made for them, while in their homes, most of them would starve.”
Another tear snaked down Gandrett’s cheek.
“So I did. I learned to see the world through their eyes, to see the pain and the strength that grew from it. Little sturdy bushes that survive the desert they are thrust into—and I am not speaking of the literal desert that surrounds the priory.” Nehelon’s gaze brightened a bit as if the humor helped see past that mentioned pain. “I left exactly another year later when Pete no longer had use for me at his facilities. His friendship…” He gave Gandrett a look that implied that he knew how hard it was to believe the Meister had friends, that the monster that had caused the scars on her limbs and back could be deemed a friend of anyone.
Gandrett no longer cared. She didn’t care who Nehelon was friends with, what the Meister’s name was. There was only one thought that was pushing to the foreground, now that Nehelon had shared what he had. “That message from the Meister—” She blinked at Nehelon, who didn’t turn away and didn’t comment on her red-rimmed eyes. “Is it to be believed? If he says he will make sure Andrew is safe at my priory?” What she couldn’t stomach was the thought that Andrew would suffer the same training that she had—and Nehelon so it seemed. The only difference was that Nehelon had gone there as an adult, probably centuries of fighting and traveling on his resumé.
“You are asking if he will hurt Andrew,” Nehelon translated correctly, and there, for a heartbeat, concern crossed his features. “When he says Andrew is safe, he is safe.”
Relief spread in Gandrett’s stomach like warm butter. “Until my return.”
“Until your return,” Nehelon repeated, and by the way he rolled to his feet, Gandrett knew storytime was over. “I’ve seen more smoke this morning,” he said instead. “It seems our draconian friends are recruiting again.” And with those words, he held out a hand to Gandrett, leaving it up to her to decide if she was ready to work with him—again.
Chapter Nineteen
Armand hadn’t sent Addie ahead in the carriage. On the contrary. The young lord didn’t protect her from any view because he knew what she had seen, what she had endured, even if she hadn’t told him the details of her time at the prison in the north. He trusted her to be strong enough to stand beside him and his sentries as they questioned the man they had hauled back from the burning village.
Now, as he spat at Armand’s feet, all the young lord did was fashion a smile of pure arrogance. “Not your day today, is it?” he asked the gray-clad man, who in no way looked like a Brenheran mercenary.
“Not my year,” the man retorted. “Possibly not my life.” He coughed up blood as he laughed darkly.
“Again,” the sentry with the kinder face said as he tightened his grip on the hood of the man, sword digging so deep into his throat it almost cut open the stubbled skin under his chin, “who sent you?”
The man shrugged, unbothered as if accidentally getting his throat cut wasn’t the worst thing he could think of.
“You truly believe my patience is never-ending.” Armand circled around the shaggy-haired man who was kneeling before the sentry. One word would suffice and the man would never take another breath. She had seen Armand give that order with some of the guards who had remained loyal to Linniue even after her death.
Addie wasn’t sure if she should admire him for the patience and grace with which he heard them all out before he came to a verdict. A just and noble Lord of Eedwood, Joshua Brenheran-Denderlain could consider himself lucky to have someone like Armand in his court.
For a brief second, she wondered if Armand making her a member of his court meant that once he would become—as Joshua had promised—the Chancellor of Sives, it would automatically make her a member of the king’s court. She shoved the thought aside as she felt a stare on her.
When she looked up, she found the man studying her with eager eyes. “You are one of us,” he said, voice hoarse and blood trickling down his chin. The sentries had brought him in like that—a swollen eye and blood spraying with every cough.
Addie shrank back a step. For the first time, one of the subjects of interrogation had acknowledged her presence there. And this man—
Armand hissed at him to be careful or Addie would be the last thing he saw.
“You are not unlike me, girl,” the man said, dismissing Armand’s words with a brief frown. “You have tasted the power of the god.”
A jolt went through Addie. “The god of…” she prompted, keeping her voice smooth as she modeled her tone after Armand’s. Unbothered, bored even.
“Don’t act stupid, girl.” His eyes brightened, the muddy brown suddenly full of life. “The god of dragons.”
Out of nowhere, a fist connected with the man’s jaw—Armand’s elegant, leather-gloved fist.“Call her stupid again, and it will be the last time you hear your useless voice.”
Threats—Addie knew how Armand got them to speak. Threats and deals. He wasn’t the kind lord when he spoke to suspects. No, he was cold and calculated, ready to protect his people and his land. And he was willing to do it smartly with as little bloodshed as necessary.
But this man before them … he knew something. This wasn’t a Brenheran brute who set villages on fire. This man had recognized that Shygon had entered her life—even if she had never invited him in. She shuddered and was grateful for the covering dress. Even if the evening breeze was warm enough to drive sweat onto her skin, she had turned ice-cold from the inside out.
“What are you talking about?” Addie asked, her voice not half as smooth as she had hoped, not half as cunning. Armand’s attention was on her, eyes probing hers as if asking whether or not she wanted him to run the man through with a sword.
But the man just smiled at their silent exchange. “The god of dragons doesn’t forget, girl.” He smiled and smiled and smiled, exposing his bloodied teeth as he grasped the blade at his throat so fast, not even the sentry holding it could react, and pushed it deeper in until a spray of crimson spattered straight out, hitting Armand’s pants and sleeve. Armand didn’t flinch. He just watched the man, eyes wide as if he couldn’t believe this was actually happening.
The sight of the blood bothered Addie less than the gurgling sound as the man kept laughing and laughing with gritted teeth until that last breath left him. But his eyes—they kept on her the entire time, a promise that she would remember his words before long.
Addie didn’t sleep that night even if the sentries had burned the body on a nearby field. Even if Armand had changed his clothes and washed every last drop of blood off his hands. She kept turning from side to side, unable to close her eyes without seeing those murky eyes, without hearing that dying laughter.
“Talk to me, Addie.” Armand had gotten up from his bedroll on the other side of the small fire that was supposed to warm them through the night and sat in the grass beside her.
“If I even knew why, I can’t stop thinking about it,” she answered promptly, glad not to be alone the way she had in the prison.
“What do you think he meant?” He gave her a look that was equally tired, equally haunted as Addie felt. “I have been lying awake, too, trying to figure out if that man somehow knew about the carving on your shoulder.”
Addie instinctively laid her hand on the fabric covering the symbol. “Do you know what it even means?”
Armand shook his head. “Did she tell you?”
Addie equally shook her head. They hadn’t spoken about the exact details of what Linniue had done to her. Not for lack of time spent together, but Armand seemed to respect her privacy enough not to ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer—until tonight.
“Do you think Gandrett knows?” It was the first time in a while she
heard Gandrett’s name from Armand’s lips. It didn’t hurt as much as it used to. Maybe because he spoke it with less adoration.
“Maybe.” Addie shrugged, pushing her fingers under the fabric to trace the scars that would, for the rest of her life, remind her of those hours of horrible agony down in the caverns. “We already know she is more than she’d led us to believe.” Addie thought of the stream of fire that Gandrett had released. She had been in and out of consciousness, but she had seen that fire… And how the earth had shifted at her command.
She hadn’t told anyone but Armand, and he had shrugged and told her that he wouldn’t allow anyone to damn Gandrett for her magic. She was the reason the heir of Sives was alive and out of Linniue’s grasp.
“She has.” Armand played with his sleeve, pensive at the reminder.
“As you know, before I came into your household, I was a prisoner in Lands End.” The words simply fell out of Addie as she wondered what else the man could have referred to. He couldn’t know about the symbol on her shoulder, so it had to be connected to her life before.
Armand’s head snapped to face her, eyes unreadable in the flickering firelight.
“Linniue brought me in to be slaughtered for Shygon, but before—” She took a deep breath, and then she told Armand about the year she had spent in captivity. The icy cold of the mountains, the beatings, the torture, the mocking, the ceremonies. She spoke in as much detail as she could bear and drew up every memory she deemed worthy of sharing so they might find something to latch onto—a track. Something so she might let her past finally rest.
Armand listened—quietly and patiently, no trace of the hard and cold noble who had threatened that man. And when she was done and tears were falling from her eyes, he reached over and wrapped one strong arm around her and tucked her to his side. He didn’t speak. He didn’t pity her. All he did was hold her and let her cry—long into the night until the first morning light chased away the darkness and cold of her past. And even then, his arm remained locked around her, a shield against that murky gaze, against that bloody laughter. So when Addie’s eyelids finally drooped, she sank into oblivion devoid even of the nightmares of pain and ice that had been haunting her sleep.
The next day, Addie woke, bundled up in two layers of blankets, Armand’s hand still resting on her shoulder, the young lord half-sitting, leaning against one of the tall trees that sheltered their camp. His second arm was folded around himself as if he had been shielding himself from the cool breeze of the night. Careful not to wake him, she slid out from under his hand and scrambled to her feet with a stifled yawn. One of the sentries greeted her with a smile and gestured that his lips were sealed. Addie couldn’t tell why exactly that made her blush, but as she felt the heat climb into her cheeks, she pursed her lips and scanned the other bedrolls. By the dying embers of the fire, the second sentry and the carriage driver were still fast asleep, which evoked a sense of relief in Addie.
Without a second look back at the sleeping young lord, she picked up her waterskin and rinsed her mouth before she scurried into the nearby bushes to tend to her needs. When she returned, even if it had been merely a minute or two, the camp was awake, and Armand was standing by his own bedroll, gathering it up with slow hands. His face was tired as if he hadn’t slept much.
“Thank you,” she said softly by way of good morning as she came to help him gather his things.
He gave her a smile that brightened those sleepy, honey-gold eyes. “It is I who has to thank you,” he corrected, hands stopping on the bedroll.
Addie stumbled over his words and sat back on her haunches, unbothered by the dust that was getting on her dress but bothered by the expression on Armand’s face. “For what?”
His smile broadened as he reached over and squeezed her hand for a brief moment.
Addie’s heart thudded as his calloused fingers scraped over hers, and she held her breath so as not to start blabbering nonsense about the sunlit color of his eyes.
“For confiding in me, Addie. I am glad I was able to be there for you last night.” He brushed his thumb across the back of her palm, the motion so gentle it forced Addie’s lungs to expand. Was this the moment? The moment she had been hoping for? When the young lord looked at her and saw her? He sighed through his nose as Addie’s mind was already skipping through thoughts of what she should be saying, how she should be feeling, and she was glad beyond measure that she wasn’t able to make up her mind because Armand squeezed her hand once more and said, “It’s hard to come by friends—real friends.” Addie’s whooping heart thudded to the ground where it cracked—nothing that would shatter her. Just another thin fracture running alongside the rest of those that had snuck their way there whenever she had dared to hope. “And I am happy to call you my friend.”
Addie forced herself to hold his gaze. Despite that stinging in her chest, she returned his smile before she withdrew her hand, folded up the bedroll, and handed it to him.
Chapter Twenty
The trees were thinning, and the light grew brighter with every turn through the forest. South. Nehelon was taking them south. Gandrett could hardly believe he had unbraided the walls of leaves and branches which had enclosed them for what felt like months rather than the weeks it had been. He whistled for Alvi—who had trotted toward him like a loyal dog—before he had led the way out of the forest.
On foot.
Lim was with Andrew, Gandrett hoped, and she had refused to climb onto the horse while the thicket of the forest made it more efficient to sneak through the twigs. At least, that was the excuse she had used. And Nehelon had willingly accepted.
Alvi had given her a sharp look though.
Now that the black mare’s butt was blocking Nehelon from sight as they slowly made their way out, Gandrett debated asking where he intended to take her.
“Not back to Alencourt,” he answered as if he had just walked into her inner debate, and Gandrett stopped for a moment to frown at the mare’s swishing tail before she continued with footsteps that were disturbingly loud on the forest ground compared to the non-existent noise of Nehelon’s Fae feet.
Then where? Gandrett was about to ask—aloud this time. But just as she was about to open her mouth, the trees cleared and allowed a view on the southernmost edge of the western mountains where the Penesor split into Ackpenesor and Eedpenesor. Gandrett had a hunch they were going to follow the western arm of the river.
It was late morning, still too early to be thinking about lunch, but Gandrett had used the early hours of the morning to practice her magic while Nehelon had been out hunting for breakfast—and whatever else he did whenever he left their temporary home in the clearing—as she had been doing every morning since that day she had been able to control her magic without a headache. It had manifested as small bundles of flame at first, but soon, she had managed to move that small heap of soil Nehelon had let her stare at for days.
As Nehelon stopped by the seam of the forest, she stepped past the horse and joined him as he gazed out into the distance, probably seeing the waves on the far-away water, hearing them with his keen senses. She studied him from the side as he stood with preternatural stillness, eyes on the horizon in the south as if he could see all the way to Ulfray.
Gandrett wondered if he was homesick sometimes. If the forests of Sives resembled the ones of his homeland. But she didn’t dare ask. She had learned over time that Nehelon talked when he wanted to share something, and apart from that, there was no information to gain—only another bruise to her pride. So she took a step forward, not even half-ready to leave the prison where she had learned to tame her powers enough to not accidentally hurt someone. Not prison. A sanctuary that wasn’t of this world but of the world of the Fae, created by one, protected by one.
Something in Gandrett’s chest tightened as she realized that now that she had left the clearing and the forest that surrounded it, everything she had so wonderfully locked away for the past weeks was real again. And she knew because as she
focused her gaze, she could make out smoke climbing up from a nearby farm, black smoke, tainting the otherwise clear, blue sky.
“You can see it, too,” Nehelon noted as she sucked in a breath.
So that was what he had been looking at.
Gandrett nodded. And as she did, her body tensed for a fight.
“These aren’t the Brenherans or the Denderlains,” Nehelon informed her with the same professionally calm voice he had used to instruct her the past day after her magic tantrum. “These are the Shygon worshippers.” He gave her a stern look and made to climb into Alvi’s saddle. “Get on the horse.”
Gandrett didn’t doubt what he said was true, that there were members of that cult collecting new sacrifices for their bloody rituals. She didn’t even feel that impulse of defiance that usually accompanied any order from Nehelon. All she did was grab Nehelon’s hand as he held it out for her and pull herself up to settle behind him on Alvi’s back. “Ready.”
She hadn’t finished the word when Nehelon spurred Alvi, who shot toward the burning buildings, making Gandrett grasp the male around the waist so as not to slide off the horse. The hard muscles of his back slammed against her chest as Alvi leaped over the edge of the road and made a hard turn to gallop along the ripening grain fields. That undefinable, unique scent that belonged to the male before her pushed into her nose, dazing her for a heartbeat before the smell of soot and death mingled with it.
When Gandrett looked up to peek over Nehelon’s shoulder, they had advanced enough to make out the ruins that were crumbling in on themselves. Too late. They were too late. She didn’t need to wait for Alvi to race over the meadow, past the small pear-garden, until they were close enough to see details. Gandrett knew—just knew—there was no life there. Either they all had burned like her mother—Gandrett swallowed a sob of rising panic—or…
Wicked Crown (Shattered Kingdom Book 2) Page 13