The driver, a young lad with dark hair and eyes and the typical clean-shorn hair of a knight, catches sight of us.
He wears simple leather armor. A sword hangs from his side. I recognize the coiled serpent insignia on his chest. It’s from Ruen, a small barony in the Midlands. I know of it, but only vaguely. Faint memories flicker through my mind—I believe I visited the castle there when I was a child, with father.
From what I can remember, it was quite basic, but there was a nice, homely garden. I vaguely recall playing in the woods just outside the castle.
Why are these lads here? Why her?
The lord of Ruen holds no special power or influence within the Rahavan Court. In fact, my father despises most of the minor lords, with their shameless ambition and posturing and sycophantic behavior. I’m sure Baron Solisar is no exception.
The carriage driver slows. A man jumps out of the cabin; yet another lad who’s barely into manhood. I wouldn’t even accept recruits this green into my army.
As soon as he catches sight of me, he draws his sword.
His stance isn’t bad, although it needs slight correction; with proper training, he has potential.
“Finley!” he shouts as they roll to a stop. His eyes hold a healthy level of distrust and fear as he looks me up and down, trying to gauge whether I’m friend or foe. “Who the bloody hell is this? Where are Duthriss’s people?”
I’m already moving, easily evading his blade, ignoring him as I reach the steps of the carriage. He’s no threat. He can’t even touch me.
I enter. Shards of broken glass are everywhere. Thick woolen blankets are strewn across the seats. In one corner, a ludicrous quantity of green-and-gold silk has been deposited, deformed by a mass of wires that’s supposed to form a skirt-like structure.
Beneath my scarf, my lips curve in wry amusement. This must be the dress that Finley cast aside. I don’t blame her. It’s a monstrosity.
My attention turns to the poor wretch lying on the floor. His torso is wrapped with blankets which are tightly secured by a belt. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow.
His face is deathly pale. Shadows encircle his eyes.
Years of experience on the battlefield tell me he’s hovering close to death. If he is to be saved, he needs a healer, now.
I lift the injured man into my arms, blankets and all. To me, he’s as light as a leaf, even though he’s big and strong and would probably feel like he weighed a ton if my old self was carrying him.
I bring him outside, where I’m promptly met with the point of a sword.
The lad’s arm trembles as he places the tip of his sword close to my neck.
“Kastel, put the sword down.” Finley’s voice is calm. Her scent surrounds me; warm, sweet, and utterly intoxicating. I don’t dare glance behind me.
“Fin, who the fuck is this guy?” The lad is having none of it. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t trust me, either. “What is he doing? What can he even do when Aderick’s in this state?” His voice cracks. Desperation and fury fill his words.
A dangerous combination.
“If you want your brother to live, then lower your sword and listen to me,” I say softly. “I’m taking him to the best healer in Tyron. I can get him there faster than anyone else. The three of you will continue toward Tyron Castle. An escort will meet you along the way.”
“You’d better do as you say, because we are guests of the Archduke, and he will hear of this,” Kastel threatens.
Given the circumstances, it’s a reasonable thing to do.
“I’m sure he will,” I say mildly.
“If my brother dies…”
“If I get him to the healer on time, he won’t die.” I have that much faith in my physician’s abilities.
Unable to help myself, I steal a glance at the strange woman; this Finley, who is apparently my betrothed.
She’s standing in the middle of the road, staring at me with wide eyes. The wind whips at her unbound hair, scattering the rich brown tendrils. Her complexion is pale. I must’ve taken a little too much from her. I see the faint evidence of my momentary madness at the base of her neck—two tiny puncture marks, surrounded by the faintest of bruising.
I’m not going to lie to myself. I would gladly drink from her again.
What am I going to do with this unexpectedly alluring creature?
She crosses her arms and glares at me, chin thrust forward, jaw set in a stubborn line. I get the feeling she’s going to curse me to all eternity if anything happens to this poor lad in my arms.
Very well.
I’ll do everything in my power to make sure he lives.
I tip my head in acknowledgment.
Then I move, faster than the human eye can follow, leaving her sharp intake of breath in my wake.
10
CORVAN
It doesn’t take me long to reach the gates of my castle.
Edinvar—immovable heart. Mountain Fortress. Tyron Castle. They’re all names for the imposing stone structure that rises up out of the vast forest, crowning an impressive stone hill that gives it spectacular views out across the city of Sanzar and the vast lands of southern Tyron.
Built by my ancestors when the Rahavan Empire was newly formed, it’s the last bastion of civilization before the hills rise into the unforgiving mountain ranges of Khatur.
Many would consider Edinvar crude and unrefined, but I like it. It’s highly defensible. I find it incredibly reassuring. In some places, the stone walls are as thick as my entire armspan.
Most importantly, it’s quiet.
I return the way I came—through the rear gates, which are normally reserved for soldiers and supply carts and the like.
The sentry atop the wall is a solemn figure. He stands with his halberd in one hand, crossbow at the ready, silently watching the forest from above the parapet.
Not everyone rests on Seinmas.
There’s always someone on guard.
I glance up, and we lock eyes. He greets me with a respectful salute, eyebrows lifting at the sight of the wounded lad in my arms. “Do you need assistance, Your Highness?”
“I’ll sort the lad out. Go and find Captain Kinnivar,” I order. “There’s a party of three headed this way on the Central Road. He’s to send an escort to meet them. I want them to be given meals and rooms in the East Wing. They are to be treated as honored guests—but also closely watched.”
Fearing the kid’s life is about to slip away, I increase my speed again. To the guard, I’d appear as nothing but a blur, but he barely reacts as I leave him.
My men are used to this kind of thing by now.
I cross the courtyard, following the path along the walls until I reach the entrance to a tall circular tower.
The heavy wooden doors creak faintly as I push them open and go inside. Holding the boy as steady as possible, I make my way up the stone staircase. He’s light in my arms, like a child’s toy. The uneven steps are nothing beneath my feet; I feel weightless, almost as if I could levitate.
Everything is easier.
More detailed.
More excruciating.