“Forgive me, Elsie. I must speak with my father right away.”
Before he can think of a diversion tactic. Before he has the chance to silence the Undin forever.
He didn’t say that aloud, but Elsie must have understood because she nodded. Sympathy flickered in her eyes, but neither of them acknowledged it.
“Of course,” she said. “Good luck.”
THE EARLY AUTUMN sun had already begun its descent into the sea as Callan stormed down the corridors. He knew his father’s habits well, and, true to his guess, he found Duke Bergen taking a walk on the upper battlements, as was his wont at this hour, before spending the evening in his study. The weather was turning bleak, with heavy storm clouds rolling over the frothy sea—a perfect match for Callan’s foul mood.
“Callan?” The duke frowned when he saw his son coming up the stairs. His fur-lined cloak was wrapped tightly around his tall frame against the gusts that blew through the embrasures. “I was just about to go down and meet with Lady Elsie. Do you know why she is come?”
“What have you done?” Callan demanded, ignoring his father’s question.
“About what?” Bergen asked, unperturbed by his son’s apparent turmoil.
They were alone on the walkway; the nearest guard stationed on the walls was well out of earshot, but Callan still lowered his voice.
“Lady Elsie is escorting an Undin captive who swears he was hired by you to abduct the Count of Camria out of Bryluen, luring him away from the keep by falsifying a message from his brother. According to him, you intended to have Derek murdered.”
Callan had to give it to his father—there were only a handful of things that could truly ruffle him, and being accused of premeditated murder wasn’t one of them.
“Well then, it seems you already have a rather good idea of what I’ve done,” he said calmly.
“But why?” Callan demanded, failing at keeping the frustration out of his voice. “I cannot imagine you’d consider Camria’s offense so dire as to—”
“This has nothing to do with Camria.” Bergen cocked his head as his eyes, cold as the winter sea, bore into Callan. “And why do you care so much for this baby sparrow and his godsforsaken fiefdom? When your nuptials were announced, you looked like someone had read your death sentence.”
“Things…have changed,” Callan pushed out with an effort.
There was a tiny pause.
“I see,” the duke said finally. “Though I must say I’m surprised, son.”
“Why? You weren’t surprised about Idona.”
Bergen’s expression softened.
“Idona was different. No one could help but love her, and I couldn’t have wished for a better match for you. She was accomplished in every way, intelligent, capable, charming—as befitting a future duchess. Derek, on the other hand, is…” He cast for the right word. “…expendable.”
Callan bit down on his indignation. There was no use telling his father that Derek was as much all those things as Idona had been, that he was smart and competent and brave, that he had brought spring into Callan’s winter-shrouded heart. Had Callan himself not been guilty of thinking the same of Derek when he first met him, of entertaining the same low opinion? Unlike him, his father hadn’t had the opportunity to get to know Derek better, to spend time with him beyond one or two cursory conversations. And it was Callan’s fault, too, because up until now, he hadn’t bothered to tell Bergen of the change in his feelings and of what had brought it about, even when he’d had the perfect opportunity. He was just as complicit in Derek’s mistreatment as his father.
“If this wasn’t revenge against Camria, what was it, then?” Callan insisted, changing the subject back where it belonged.
Bergen turned away, looking through the embrasure to below, his hands resting on the stone ledge. The wind tangled his short gray hair, tugged at the hem of his long cloak, and for a moment, Callan thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“When the raiders’ attacks on our coastline had renewed, there was little doubt as to who was behind them. I knew something had to be done. A conflict of this kind puts us at a great disadvantage, and we simply haven’t got the means to canvass every mile of the seaboard. But it still wasn’t cause to declare another war; at least it wouldn’t be in the Queen’s eyes. She was already displeased with Mulberny for using excessive force to resolve the dispute with Camria.”
Bergen scoffed, making it very clear his definition of “excessive” differed greatly from Her Majesty’s. “But force is all they understand. Any sort of lenience is perceived by the Agiennans—or whatever clan—as weakness, as an excuse to push on with more violence. I knew I had to do something that would give us a proper cause to retaliate.”
“And the kidnapping and murder of the Duke of Mulberny’s new son-in-law would be the casus belli that not even the Queen could contest,” Callan said slowly.
All the pieces of the puzzle fell into place to create a picture horrifying in its simplicity. The Undin, owing fealty to no one but themselves and guided by nothing other than immediate gain, would have no qualms about taking the duke’s money to make it seem like Derek had been abducted by the Danulf. And when his mangled body was found, the duke would have no choice but to seek revenge against the presumed perpetrators. The situation with Agienna was so volatile already, with both sides barely keeping their mutual hate in check, that nothing more would be needed to ignite the fires of another war.
“Had Aegir executed me, you’d have gotten your wish,” Callan said bitterly. “All your plans would have come to fortunate fruition.”
Bergen’s fingers flexed on the weathered gray stone. “You were never supposed to be there. For gods’ sake, Callan. Had I known you’d be foolish enough to go after this man—”
“He’s my husband,” Callan gritted out. “The one you made me marry. Did you really think I’d abandon him to his fate even if I didn’t—even if I cared nothing about him? I had to go after him. Leandre was killed because she was of the same mind.”
He was shaking with rage and raw grief—for his best friend who was now dead, for the love he’d deluded himself into thinking he could have. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. It didn’t work as well as he’d hoped.
“I see now it was a mistake,” Bergen said levelly, but his clenched jaw told Callan his father, too, was struggling for composure. “I’ve miscalculated your…attachment. Believe me, learning of your torture at the hands of the Danulf animal—I’ve rued that decision a thousand times over.”
Hearing the pain in Bergen’s voice took some of the edge off Callan’s seething anger. There was no doubt in his heart his father loved him, and the possibility of losing Callan (especially due to his own machinations) had had a deep impact on him. Callan could see it in the new lines around his eyes, in the stooping of his shoulders. But Bergen’s only regret was unwittingly endangering the life of his son; he had no remorse for sacrificing Derek to what he considered a greater good. And no matter how much Callan loved and respected his father, he couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive him for that.
Especially not if he was scheming to do it all over again.
“You may have rued it, but it hasn’t stopped you from making another attempt at his life, has it?” he said with a fierceness that surprised him. He’d never taken such a disrespectful tone with his father, neither as a child nor as an adult. But there was a first time for everything, it seemed—even disenchantment with one’s own parent.
“How did you learn about that?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s true, isn’t it?”
Bergen’s lips pressed into a hard line.
“Yes. It had to be done, this time with no risk to you. And when you told me he knows about your…affliction, well, it was all the more reason to go through with my plan. The danger of exposure is too great to let someone run around carrying that kind of information.”
“‘Someone’? It’s my husband we’re talking about!”
“A husband in name only,” Bergen said with emphasis. “Or so I believed.”
“Father.” Callan caught Bergen’s gaze and held it. “Tell Medwin to call off the assassins, or call them off yourself. I don’t care how you do it. I love Derek, even if he wants nothing to do with me after this. Do you hear me? I love him. And if he comes to harm by your hand, I swear to all the gods of sea and earth you will lose me too.”
Bergen’s eyes blazed with cold fire. Callan knew better than anyone the duke was not in the habit of taking orders from anyone. The High Queen herself had a hard time imposing her will on him. It was a heady feeling, openly defying his father and liege lord for the first time in his entire life, not unlike leaping off the edge of a cliff. For a second, Callan was suspended midair, equally likely to be embraced by the depths or be shattered against the razor-sharp rocks below.
He squared his shoulders, bracing himself for the outpouring of his father’s wrath. But the flash of fury was gone as quickly as it’d sparked, the fire quenched in the duke’s eyes. Bergen turned once again to face the sea, not looking at his son.
“Fine,” he said, his tone both clipped and weary. “If that is how you feel, son, far be it from me to stand in the way of your happiness. Just…make sure you’re bestowing your affections on a deserving person.”
“He is, Father,” Callan said quietly.
Callan had more reasons than most to hate fate. It was always a force to be dreaded, to contend with, sometimes to morbid outcome. But perhaps it had given him a gift, without Callan realizing it.
Both Derek and he resented having been forced into an arranged sham of a marriage. Neither of them had been happy, standing there in the chapel, forcing the pledges of matrimony out of their mouths. Hell, he had explicitly banished Derek from his bed, unwilling to sully the memory of his first spouse by paying conjugal debt to another. But later…later everything had changed. Against all odds, they’d formed a tentative connection based on grudging respect as well as unexpected attraction. They’d saved each other’s lives. They’d shared an intimacy that extended well beyond the bedroom. In fact, that was why Callan had ended up sharing his bed with Derek at all, and not for a moment had he regretted his decision. His memories of Idona had not faded, his sorrow had not diminished—but it’d grown bearable. It was as if Derek had infused his gray and bleak existence with all the exuberant colors Callan hadn’t noticed before—the shimmering azure of a calm sea, the delicate pink of dawn, the rich reds and purples of the setting sun. With him, Callan didn’t merely exist. He lived.
If there was ever a time to fight for his life, it was now.
“My lord!” came a cry as a guard burst out into the walkway, and they both turned in alarm. Callan stepped forward, his hand going to the hilt of his dagger in lieu of a sword.
“What is it?” the duke asked.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” the guard bowed, panting. “Agiennan ships have been spotted off Shantor Island.”
The island, no more than conveniently situated rock, marked the boundary of Mulberny’s territorial waters. A watchtower, built centuries ago, housed a tiny alternating garrison and an aviary, to warn the mainland in case of an intrusion.
“What clans are the ships?” Callan asked, although he already knew the answer.
“Most of them are Danulf, my lord. But there are other ships, too—Herig, Sebald, Urfan.”
“Well,” Callan said, meeting his father’s eyes. “Looks like you’ve gotten your war after all.”
Chapter Seventeen
DESPITE THE BRASH words he’d flung at Callan earlier, Derek was perfectly aware that running off probably hadn’t been the best idea.
Disappointment and righteous indignation were perhaps enough of a driving force to have him storm out of the castle, but he had to admit he’d be a much easier target for hired assassins traveling the high road, even escorted by his retinue. On the other hand, his best bet would be to take his brothers and his men and leave before Duke Bergen had the chance to hear of their departure and instruct his minions accordingly. He didn’t know if Callan had informed his father of their conversation already, nor had he asked him to keep it a secret. It was painfully obvious where Callan’s loyalties lay, and it wasn’t Derek’s place to split them further.
Therefore, as much as he might want to, he couldn’t count on Callan’s discretion. He had to hurry. But as he shoved the few personal possessions scattered around his room into his saddlebags, Derek hesitated, gazing out of the wide-open window.
The skies had grown darker, and the sun had all but disappeared behind heavy clouds pregnant with rain. Crisp, fresh blasts of cold air billowed the curtains, yet his lungs felt constricted, as if a thick, viscous…something filled his chest, binding his heart with poisonous tendrils.
He drew a deep, panicked breath, clutching at the bedpost for support. A ragged, convulsive gasp tore out of him, and the tears he’d been fighting so hard to keep back came right out with it. The carved wooden post shook under his hand, or maybe it was his hand that was shaking; he couldn’t tell. He wanted to wail in frustration, like a child railing against the unfairness of life.
And it wasn’t fair. Love shouldn’t hurt so much, make him so utterly wretched, without the dubious solace of assigning guilt. Unlike his father, Derek couldn’t blame other people for his own misfortunes. He couldn’t even blame himself for falling in love with Callan because, in a sense, it was as unavoidable as him experiencing yet another loss. Even now, knowing the outcome, he’d do it all over again, because loving Callan had become as much a part of him as his own name.
He didn’t know how long he stood there crying. Too long, considering the urgency. Eventually, the tears let up, though the ache remained. There was nothing to it, he told himself. The air crackled with the anticipation of rain as darkness rapidly descended.
A storm would make it difficult to follow them, however uncomfortable the journey. Derek wiped his face one last time, grabbed his bags, and quietly closed the door after him.
Muffled shouting and running sounded farther down the wing. For a second, he froze in apprehension, but the noise seemed to be moving away from the family quarters. Whatever it was, it probably had nothing to do with him.
Derek hurried down the staircase and into another corridor, heading to the guest rooms assigned to Ivo and Macon, but stopped in his tracks as a female voice called out his name. He turned and found himself face-to-face with Callan’s sister.
Adele wore a simple day dress with a gray mourning ribbon tied around her forearm in Leandre’s honor, but her hair was done in an elaborate arrangement of braids that made her look too sophisticated for her age.
The sight of the ribbon sent a pang through Derek’s heart. He’d taken his off when they’d ridden out to patrol the coast what seemed like ages ago and hadn’t put it back on. Perhaps he should—but to honor the memory of the brave woman who’d almost become his friend, the one who’d given her life to save him, rather than his abusive father, who’d never cared for anyone but himself.
“Derek,” Adele said, and then her gaze fell on the bags he was holding. A frown creased her forehead, and her eyes, which were up until a second ago wide with alarm, narrowed. It reminded Derek so much of Callan that his heart twisted. “You’re leaving?”
There was no escaping the direct question or hiding his state of distress, puffy eyes and all. Derek couldn’t lie to her; although of sweet and gentle disposition, Adele was just as shrewd as the rest of her family. And besides, he liked her too much to deceive her. She reminded him of Ayleen—or at least a more grown-up, accomplished version of her.
“Yes,” he said, dropping his voice. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“What? Why? Does Callan know?”
“He knows. We…had a falling out.”
“You cannot be serious—”
“It’s what he wants,” Derek said hastily, forestalling her incredulity. “It’s what we both want.”
&
nbsp; “I don’t know about you, but this is decidedly not what he wants,” Adele said with a vehemence that surprised him. “Don’t you see he’s in love with you?”
Perhaps at one point Derek had let himself believe it. But whatever feelings Callan might have harbored for him, they weren’t strong enough to weather the current storm.
“I don’t think it’s—” he began cautiously.
“It is true!” Adele insisted. Her cheeks were flushed with either anger or frustration, or perhaps both, and her tone, usually mild and lighthearted, had suddenly taken on the note of steel Duke Bergen used when addressing his troops. “I’ve watched you together this past week. I’ve seen how you look at each other. I might not have ever been in love myself, but I know it when I witness it.”
Derek swallowed. He really didn’t have time for this—nor, frankly, the emotional fortitude.
“Adele, please. I’m sorry; I have to go. I’m sure Callan will do perfectly well without me.”
“You haven’t heard, then?”
Derek’s stomach lurched unpleasantly.
“Heard what?”
“Irthorg is under attack. Or it will be, soon. The Agiennan ships are coming.”
Derek swore under his breath. So that was what all the running and shouting had been about.
“Where’s Callan?”
“He’ll be in my father’s chambers. They’re holding a council.”
It took him all but a heartbeat to come to a decision.
“Here,” he said, dropping his bags at Adele’s feet. “Tell Ivo to put these back in my room.”
“Good luck!” Adele called after him, but Derek already tore up the stairs leading to the duke’s study.
WHAT AM I doing? Derek ran through the narrow corridors of the old keep, ignoring the stabs of pain in his ankle and drawing the startled glances of the passing servants. It wasn’t as if his presence was in any way required. The Mulbernians had plenty of experience waging battles against the Agiennans, perhaps too much experience. Callan didn’t need Derek there to hold his hand, and the duke would certainly oppose whatever help he might offer.
The Wolf and the Sparrow Page 18