Cows, horses, and a few donkeys stand under lean-tos, looking bored. They seem to care little about the weather. The streets are dirt, but they are tidy. Even here in the town, homes have cozy little gardens. Many have window boxes with flowers pouring out of them, and even a few have room for vegetables.
I’ve never been to Glendare. Most of Father’s business is taken care of in Evershorne, a large southern town near the Vernow border.
There are few people on the streets—which have turned to mud in the rain—and our party travels to the castle gates unnoticed. The drawbridge is down, but guardsmen are posted on either side of the entrance. Archers stand along the wall, their eyes on the comings and goings in the little village below.
“Why so many guards?” I ask Galinor.
“We’ve had trouble with Errintonians coming into the village and causing havoc,” he says, speaking of the citizens of the kingdom directly above Glendon.
Years ago, they were known for crafting prized dragon steel. Now that the Dragon Wars are over, and they have signed the Dragon Treaty along with the other kingdoms, many have ceased their smithing arts and are filtering into lower Elden, robbing and ambushing as they travel.
“What of the people outside the gates?”
“We have constant patrols. It has helped, but the problem persists.”
Galinor calls a greeting to the guards on duty, and they let us pass. We must look a sight, six of us on three horses, but they ask their prince no questions. Inside the castle gates, the courtyard floor is lined with the same gray stone the castle is built from.
Several large buildings, including a chapel and a stable, stand in front of the castle. A few more people linger here despite the rain, but most are guards.
We stop in front of the stable, and a man rushes out to collect the horses. Curiosity shines in his eyes as we dismount. I glance at Bran and Dristan. They seem relieved to be away from their horse.
“This way.” Galinor leads us past huge, double doors and into a warm entry.
A fire crackles merrily from a massive hearth, welcoming us. I untie my drenched wool cape and hang it over my arm as we walk. My boots click on the stone floor, echoing despite the woven tapestries hanging from the halls.
Galinor takes us up a wide staircase and into the throne room. At the moment, the four thrones sit empty. We do not go to them, but instead turn inside wooden doors at the left.
“We are in my family’s private quarters,” Galinor says.
A large sitting room sits empty, but another fire crackles in the corner, inviting in anyone who may wish to rest. Marigold pauses, and she sighs as she looks at the wall of bookshelves.
Galinor smiles when he sees the longing in her eyes. “You may come back.”
She hesitates but then follows us down the next hall. We come to another set of doors, these ones intricately carved. Like everything in Castle Glendon, they look as if they could withstand an attack. Galinor knocks, and we wait.
The doors open, and a lovely woman with dark hair and startlingly blue eyes stands on the other side. “Galinor!” Pleasure brightens her face. She swings the door open, and her eyes widen in surprise when she takes in our wet, dripping party. “We have guests.”
The woman who must be Galinor’s mother ushers us in. As she does, she murmurs how cold and wet we are, and how famished we must be. I don’t know that I am famished, but now that she mentions it, I could certainly eat.
A man who resembles Galinor in height and build looks up from a game of strategy, a smile on his face. “Welcome back, son. The news we’ve had of the tournament has not been encouraging.”
Galinor cringes, obviously hoping to postpone this part of the reunion for a few moments longer. “It did not go as I had hoped.”
The man across from King Howell stands in greeting. “An Errintonian won?”
“Yes, Lord Archer of Errinton was the winner.”
“A shame for the princess.” King Howell shakes his head. “Nothing good comes from Errinton.”
Galinor looks uncomfortable. “No, Archer is a good man.”
I think he means his words, but he still looks ill.
Galinor’s brother comes to me and offers his hand. “I’m Teagan.”
I give him mine, and he bows low. I nod in return. “Lady Anwen of Primewood.”
Teagan looks nothing like his brother. Where Galinor is dark, Teagan is fair. Galinor is muscular; Teagan is lean. He is handsome, I suppose, but not in the way Galinor is.
“Are you the daughter of Baron Thomas Millner?” Teagan asks.
My mouth opens, surprised. “That’s right.”
“Your Father procured a collection of rare maps for me last month. He’s very competent.”
“Thank you,” I say before he moves to Marigold.
Shyly, she offers him her hand and blushes when he takes it. She drops her eyes and then looks back up, her eyelashes fluttering. “What kind of maps?”
I grin at the pair but try to hide it before anyone notices. Soon the rest of the introductions are made.
“We will have rooms prepared for you all,” Queen Penelope says as she pulls on a long tasseled rope by the door. “After you have had a chance to change into dry clothes and are rested, we will all get to know each other a little better.”
Galinor has settled into a large padded chair by the fire. The melancholy look has returned to his face. I had hoped he would be better once he was home, but it seems as if he is worse.
***
Everything is wet—the dress I have on, the extra dress in my satchel, and all my underthings.
Wet, wet, wet.
I toss myself on the lovely bed, lie back, and let my hair soak the beautifully embroidered blanket. I need to lay the dresses out to dry.
All right, get up.
I drum my fingers on my stomach. I can’t seem to will myself to move, so instead I roll over, wrapping the blanket around me, and cuddle deeper into the bed.
I must fall asleep, because I am startled awake when the queen calls, “Lady Anwen?”
Oh, no.
I jerk up and try to smooth my hair down. I unwrap from my lovely cocoon and—since I have nothing dry to wear—only peek my head out the door.
“I’m afraid I fell asleep,” I apologize.
The queen smiles at me from the hall. “Of course you did. You must be exhausted from riding all day in this weather.” She raises an eyebrow, looking at the door. “May I come in?”
The tips of my ears burn. “Everything I have is wet from the ride. I have nothing to wear.”
Her face softens in pity. “You should have called for someone. I will have something brought to you right away.”
I feel ridiculous, but how can I object when I am standing, speaking with the Queen of Glendon, in damp underthings?
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
She waves her hand. “It’s not a problem. I’ll have a lady’s maid with you shortly.”
The queen leaves. True to her word, in no time at all, a maid arrives. In her arms, she holds a breathtaking gown in deep amethyst. The bodice is fitted, and the skirt is full. Gold threads meander in a spiral design over the entire bodice.
Will Galinor like it?
I bite the inside of my cheek. What a ridiculous thought. What difference does it make if he likes it?
The maid’s face falls when she sees my consternation. “Don’t you care for it?”
“Oh, I love it,” I assure her. “It’s exquisite.”
As the daughter of a merchant, I have many beautiful gowns, but this one is breathtaking.
“Are you sure it’s all right for me to wear?” I ask, fingering the decorative stitching.
The girl laughs. “Of course it’s all right. The queen sent it to you.”
There are underthings as well. I slip them on and almost sigh out loud. It feels so good to be in something dry.
The maid slips the gown over my head and then laces the back. “Shall I tend your hair
?”
I nod, and she carefully unwinds my braid. The damp tendrils fall well past my shoulders, looking longer now that they are wet. The girl works with quick, nimble fingers, and soon my hair is braided in a crown around my head.
“I am to take you to the others,” she says when she’s finished. “Are you ready?”
I glance at my reflection in the hand mirror she offers me. I’m more nervous than I have reason to be. “Yes. I’m ready.”
***
I poke Irving in the ribs. “Will you stop glaring at them?”
He whisks me across the hall, leading me with the music. “I’m not glaring, Anwen.” His lips curve in a wry smile. “I’m observing.”
I follow his gaze to Teagan and Marigold. They dance together, so animated in their conversation, they often forget to move. Instead of swirling with the music, they linger in the middle of the hall, their hands still in place, and their eyes locked.
Irving narrows his eyes as Teagan whispers something close to Marigold’s ear, making her laugh. I grin at Irving’s reaction and turn him so his back faces the couple.
We pass by the front of the hall, where Galinor sits alone, looking grim. I purposely avert my eyes, but they keep wandering back.
The gathering is intimate; there are twenty nobles at the most, not including the children who play at the edges. Little girls twirl in their dresses, staring at the couples with wide eyes. The younger boys run about, causing trouble, but the older ones watch the dancing with a mixed expression of horror and curiosity.
My attention turns back to Galinor. A young woman comes to his side, a sweet-looking girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen. She smiles at him adoringly, obviously hoping the handsome prince will ask her to dance. My focus is so intent on them, I trip when Irving turns.
“Your dancing, as always, is divine,” Irving says when I accidently step on his foot. He flashes me a grin.
“And you are as charming as ever.”
“I must be losing my touch. Your attention is everywhere but on me.”
My eyes snap back to him. “I’m sorry, Irving.”
He tilts his head, studying me before he looks away. “I think I’m going to go save that poor girl from Galinor.”
I scan the room as if I don’t know exactly where Galinor is at. “What girl?”
Irving snorts a laugh. “Right.”
He leads me to the pair. As soon as the song ends, Irving releases me. Galinor stands, his cobalt eyes locking with mine, and he gives me a small bow.
With a grand flourish, Irving thanks me for the dance and then turns his attention on the girl. Immediately besotted with the handsome Prince of Primewood, she dances away with him, starry eyed.
And now I’m alone with Galinor.
I smooth the fabric at my waist and clear my throat. “This is lovely.”
The tiniest of smiles graces his lips. “It’s the girl who makes the gown.”
My hand stills on the fabric and my eyes widen in surprise. Heat rises to my cheeks. “I meant the evening…but thank you.”
He scans the couples before turning his attention back to me. Like an apology, he says, “I don’t dance.”
I nod, unsure how to answer. Perhaps that is his tactful way of suggesting I move along?
He offers his arm before I excuse myself. “But I walk. Would you care to join me?”
I fight back a silly grin and accept his arm. “I’d love to.”
We make our way to the open terrace opposite the hall. It’s still raining, but we’re partially protected by the balcony above.
Galinor motions to the Triblue brothers, who stand inside, charming several ladies with their tales of the sea. “Bran and Dristan seem to be enjoying themselves.”
I murmur my agreement and smile as a chorus of laughter rings out at the end of one of Bran’s stories.
Galinor leans against a pillar. “This afternoon, while you were resting, I picked out your horses. They should serve you well.”
My stomach twists. Surely he knows how badly I want him to come?
“That’s very kind.” I can’t meet his eyes. “I’m indebted to you.”
He smiles. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
I nod.
“Gypsies are dangerous. Don’t forget that.”
With the way the firelight glints off his dark hair and shadows his muscular build, I think he may be just as dangerous.
A breeze blows across the valley, and I shiver.
“You’re cold.” Again, he offers his arm. “Let’s go back inside.”
“Galinor, I…”
He searches my eyes but stays silent, waiting for me to finish.
I mean to ask him to come with us, but instead I say, “I am a little chilled.”
I take his arm and let him lead me in.
***
“How long will you be in Vernow?” Teagan asks Marigold and me.
I mull the question over. “We’re not sure.”
“Will you return?” Teagan turns to Marigold, taking her hand. “I’m hoping to have procured journals from Lestonia in a month or so. I would love to show them to you.”
Marigold nods, a dreamy smile plastered on her face.
After dancing, the two spent the entire evening bent over dusty maps. Teagan is all Marigold spoke of this morning. It didn’t take long for Irving to decide he wouldn’t be leaving her here in Glendon.
Whether she likes it or not, she’s stuck with us.
I smile at the two and turn away to give them privacy. Bran, Dristan, and Irving speak with the king, thanking him for replacing our horses. Galinor leans against the stable wall, his arms crossed and his eyes unreadable.
I suppose it’s time to say goodbye. I walk to him, unsure what to do with my arms. I cross them, mimicking his posture. He watches me, waiting for me to speak first.
My eyes drop to the ground. “Thank you again. For everything.”
Come with us. Please, come with us.
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re welcome, Your Ladyship. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
And I am dismissed.
I turn away. I will be dignified—I will handle this disappointment with decorum.
I whip around, grab his hand, and drag him into the stable. It would be quite a feat if he were not willing to follow. I find a quiet, solitary corner in an unoccupied stall. He watches me, crossing his arms again, looking both perturbed and amused.
“Why won’t you come with us?” I demand.
He sets his jaw. “You don’t need me.”
Dust motes dance in the morning light shining in from a high window. The animals eat their morning meals, and the sweet scent of hay tickles my nose.
“I do.”
He shakes his head. “You have Irving, Bran, and Dristan. You will be fine.”
I set my hands on my hips. “Irving shouldn’t even count. He finds more trouble than anyone I know.”
Despite himself, a smile plays at Galinor’s lips.
Encouraged, I continue, “Marigold will be with us, and she’ll need her own keeper. That leaves me with one escort. Dristan is still healing—I’ll be playing nursemaid to the lot of them.”
He uncrosses his arms and leans against a post. “You don’t really believe that.”
My lips twitch in a smile. “Not really.”
His eyes soften, and he gives me an unnerving look that makes me want to both step away and step nearer. “What are you saying, Anwen?”
I look over his shoulder, hoping to appear nonchalant. “You should come with us.”
He steps closer. Suddenly the stable is too warm, too quiet. “I should come? Or you want me to come?”
I shrug and coil a strand of hair around my finger. “What’s the difference?”
His eyes are intense and teasing, and it’s a deadly combination. “It’s all a matter of should or want. I’ll come if you want me.”
Why is this so hard? Why is there no air?
&nbs
p; I meet his eyes. “I want you to come.”
He shrugs, and then he grins. “All right.”
I laugh, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Well, hurry up. Let’s get your horse saddled so we can leave.”
He leans in, his lips near my ear. “He already is.”
CHAPTER TEN
Crayhope
“Do you see him?” Irving asks me.
We’re standing amid tents and gypsy carts in a camp made up of several different troupes in Crayhope. We’re not the only spectators wandering around, taking in the sights, but I feel conspicuous, nonetheless.
“No,” I answer when a man I thought might be Dimitri turns around.
The man notices me staring and flashes me a grin. The sun glints off the front row of his gold teeth, and I try not to stare. A braided goatee falls to his bare, hairy abdomen, and there are markings all over his chest and arms.
I turn away to hide my grimace. He’s certainly not Dimitri.
“What kind of paint did that man have on him?” Marigold asks once we’ve wandered a little farther. She fidgets with her braid.
“It’s not paint,” Bran answers. “They’re tattoos.”
I notice several men have marks of all different designs and shades on their bare arms. I don’t remember Dimitri having one, but who knows what he may have been hiding under his clothes.
My cheeks burn at the thought.
“What’s a tattoo?” Marigold asks, her voice as disgusted as it is intrigued.
Marigold goes white when Bran explains.
It’s supposed to be the second day of the festival, but there is very little excitement. It seems the entertainers are biding their time while the Marquis of Crayhope decides whether or not the festival will proceed with the recent, sad news of Prince Lionel of Vernow’s dragon abduction. Merchants linger by their carts, swatting flies and grumbling amongst themselves. Until the Marquis makes his decision, nothing can be sold.
No one looks familiar, though I don’t know if I would recognize a member of Dimitri’s troupe if I saw them. My shoulders slump, and I look up into the blue, late summer sky.
I don’t think he’s here.
Galinor scans the crowds. “This is getting us nowhere.”
An older gypsy man stands near us. Silver streaks his once black hair. Despite his age, he still wears it long, the length of it falling just above his waist. There’s a large gold hoop through one ear. His eyes are sharp, and they study Galinor as the prince strides toward him.
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