“I know, Magnus. I see it in your eyes every time she enters a room. I see how you watch her.”
Magnus felt the sudden need to run away from here, far away. A desperate urge to hide his face from the world. He hadn’t shared this truth with anyone; he’d keep it buried deep, so deep inside that he barely glanced at it himself. He’d been appalled at the merest hint that Andreas might have some inkling of his darkest secret.
But now for the king to pull it out and flaunt it like some sort of prized animal he’d shot on a hunt, bloody and raw. Like it meant nothing.
“I need to go.” Magnus turned to the door.
His father clamped his hand down on his shoulder. “Ease your mind. I’ll tell no one of this. Your secret will remain safe from this day forward. But if you do everything I ask of you, I can promise you one thing. No man will ever touch her. If nothing else, you’ll be able to take solace in that.”
Magnus didn’t say anything else. The moment his father let go of him, that was exactly what he did—bursting from the room. He practically ran down the halls toward his chambers, where he sank down to the floor, his back pressed against the cold gray wall. He couldn’t bear to face Lucia again tonight.
Finding an exiled Watcher in Paelsia was not proving to be as simple a task as Cleo had hoped. And stowing aboard a cargo ship carrying wine back and forth from Auranos to Paelsia wasn’t as luxurious as being aboard her father’s lavish yacht. But she and Nic had successfully arrived.
Cleo carried a bag of necessities, including a change of clothes and a small sack of gold and silver coins, generic currency rather than recognizable Auranian centimos stamped with the face of the goddess, which might draw attention to their travels. She kept the hood of her cloak over her sun-swept hair most of the time, but it was more to keep out the cold breeze than to remain incognito. There would only be a small handful in this goddess-forsaken land who’d have any idea who she really was.
And they walked. And walked.
And walked some more.
The journey to find Aron’s wine the last time she’d been here felt as if it was an endless trip. It was but a glimpse of this.
Each village was a half day’s journey from each other—at the very least. A couple times they’d managed to catch a ride on the back of a horse-drawn cart, but mostly they walked. Each village looked the same as the last. Small, poor, with a cluster of cottages, a tavern, an inn, and a market selling various modest wares, including small, sad-looking fruits and vegetables. These food items didn’t grow so well in the cold soil as the grapes did. It was only more evidence that the vineyards and the grapes themselves were specifically touched by earth magic. This realization helped Cleo remain optimistic as the days dragged on.
Shortly after their arrival, they wandered through the vineyards themselves, wide expanses of green vines planted in neat rows, the ground frosty, the pale green grapes cold to the touch but large and plump and sweet.
Before anyone could see them, catch them, they’d gathered as many bunches of grapes as they could and ran away. It wasn’t a perfect meal served by servants in front of a blazing fire, but it filled their bellies—especially since Nic had proved useless at catching a quick-moving rabbit for dinner. They’d come upon an awkward and slow-moving turtle, but neither of them had had the heart to end its life. At the time, they hadn’t been hungry enough for turtle meat. Instead, they ate the remainder of their dried fruit.
Beyond the west coast, where the harbor hugged the rocky shore and the vineyards grew, they traveled farther east along narrow dirt roads, stopping in each village to ask if anyone knew of the legends—and if there were any rumors of an exiled Watcher living amongst the peasants.
To anyone who asked, Cleo and Nic introduced themselves as a brother and sister from northern Limeros who were traveling together to research such stories. The thought was humorous to Cleo and she could barely keep the grin off her face whenever Nic told his tale—each time it became more grand. Before long, they were the son and daughter of a famous Limerian poet who’d asked them with his dying breath to complete his life’s work—a book about the Watchers of the Kindred.