Kelan leaned against a brick wall, breathing hard.
“What was that?” Haldur asked. “It would’ve been a sure hit.”
“That woman they had all painted and dressed up wasn’t Isabella.”
“You don’t know that.”
Kelan turned on him. “I do. It wasn’t her. It was someone else.”
Haldur went very still. “The girl. The deserter.”
Kelan nodded slowly and stared at his shoes. He wasn’t sure what the punishment for this was going to be, but it would be painful.
Haldur stepped closer, and Kelan winced. “Who is she?”
“Her name’s Sol. She’s a huntress from one of the Ulve villages. She was guiding the Tokken Army through the pass.”
“And you let her escape?”
“She saved my life. I promised I’d return the favor.”
Haldur grabbed Kelan and shoved him up against the wall. “She knows where our camp is, you fool!”
“She won’t tell. She hasn’t, otherwise the army would’ve already come and wiped us out.”
“Because she’s been so busy preparing for her wedding.”
Kelan tried to pull himself free from his uncle, but Haldur held him fast. “She’s not Isabella. She can’t be getting married to Turullius.”
“She deceived you. Lady Isabella was the one who traveled with you all the way through the pass and you never knew it.”
“I saw Isabella on her horse in her fancy dress and I know she’s dead.”
“Can’t you see? They used a decoy.”
“A decoy?”
Haldur rammed Kelan against the wall again, knocking the breath out of him. “That huntress was Lady Isabella all along. They hid her in plain sight. And now they’ll keep her far out of reach. It’ll be impossible to get to her, even with our inside men.”
Kelan couldn’t breathe.
Now it all made sense. Why else would she have pretended to be a man? No one would suspect the hunter to be the real Lady Isabella. She had used him to keep warm and to hunt food for her.
Every word had been a lie. Every kiss. Had she ever even cared for him? Or had she been eager to get to Olisipo so she could send soldiers through the city to hunt him down?
She betrayed us.
Fire flooded Kelan’s body and his lips curled into a snarl. “We’ll get her, Uncle. We’ll find a way.”
Chapter 31
Sol
The carriage thundered over the cobblestone road and knocked Sol’s head against the seat. One of the slave girls was crying.
Sol shut her eyes against the image of Kelan’s face, and the confusion and the hurt she had seen there. Kelan had seen her, all covered in this makeup and dressed like a lady. Did he truly think she was Isabella?
She had almost called out to him, almost leapt from the carriage so she could have the chance to talk to him, but the commander had been beside him. And he had tried to kill her.
She and Kelan were enemies once more.
What would become of him? Would the Tokken soldiers catch him? If Sol became a princess, would she have the power to plead for his life?
Everything was so terribly wrong. She should’ve never left the Ulves. The Flameskin Army had reclaimed Kelan, and she was an imposter in an uncomfortable dress destined for a life without mountains.
The carriage didn’t stop until they entered the grounds of Prince Turullius’ manor and the gates closed behind them. The enormous walls cut her off from the sky and the mountains behind her.
Commander Jahr extended an enormous hand to help Sol from the carriage. “You’re safe here, Lady Isabella.”
Jahr had one rule for Sol: remain silent. Lady Isabella didn’t speak Cassian, though Sol did. Cassian customs were different from Tokkedal’s, and Prince Turullius would overlook her blunders as adjustments to the new culture, not as a huntress pretending to be a lady.
Her two new attendants would help her with the rest. They would paint her face and dress her, and tell her what to do. The two women were Tokken slaves Turullius had bought and trained specifically for the use of his new Tokken wife.
It must have been obvious to them Sol wasn’t who she said she was. She spoke and acted like one of the common folk, not a lady. But the slave girls had been blessedly silent as they had attended her and primped her and cleaned her. And Jahr had assured her he would be there to smooth the transition.
Sol stepped out of the carriage into a courtyard of stone. The ground was paved with square blocks, and the manor was made of bricks. This was a home that wouldn’t burn.
The manor was larger than any building she had ever seen, larger even than the temple in Skive she had once visited as a child. She had never been to Lady Isabella’s manor, but it must’ve been similarly large and grand. Wavy panes of glass covered the manor’s walls and allowed her to see the fine furniture and tapestries inside.
A pair of large oak doors marked the entrance to the manor, and Cassian soldiers in green uniforms and attendants in plain, gray dresses waited on the steps leading up to the door.
A finely-clothed Cassian stood in the center with his arms crossed over his broad chest. His hair and beard were long, as was the Cassian custom, and his beard had many thin braids tied with gold thread. He wore a fur hat over his blond hair, and a thick fur coat rich with red and gold tassels.
Sol’s heart caught in her chest and she took a step backward. Prince Turullius. Lady Isabella’s betrothed.
Her betrothed.
Jahr caught her arm and dragged her forward. “Behave,” he hissed in her ear.
Her heart fluttered in her chest, as flighty as a bird. She wished she were bird, wished she could fly away from here and never return.
Prince Turullius was in his late thirties, and she was barely nineteen. His bearded face gave him a gruff and surly aspect, and his sharp, blue predator eyes didn’t help.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. This was her future now. She was going to marry him and save her village. She would be wealthy, and her family would never know hunger again. She was going to be brave and do the right thing. And Kelan—
And Kelan had come to the parade with the intention of killing Lady Isabella. Whatever had happened between them on those cold, snowy nights was over.
Turullius walked forward and held out his arms. He caught her by the shoulders and kissed each of her cheeks with lips that barely stuck out from beneath his thick beard. She stiffened at his touch. He stank of spicy, curried meat, and honey mead.
“My lovely bride,” Turullius said in Cassian, his eyes roving her face. “Welcome,” he added for her benefit, in thick, clumsy Nordese.
Jahr nudged her.
“Prince Turullius,” Sol said and curtsied low, as she had practiced. “I am grateful to be with you.” She tried to make her words stick and the sounds come out strange. Lady Isabella was only supposed to know a few words of Cassian.
Turllius grinned and took her tightly by the arm, leading her into the house. It was all she could do to make herself keep breathing as they passed through the oak doors of the prince’s manor. Why had she agreed to do this? Her stomach twisted itself into knots just standing next to him.
It was warm and smelled of food inside the manor. One thing she could look forward to, at least. She was always hungry now, though she could eat only a little at a time. Her stomach was still adjusting.
Turullius released her to shrug off his fur coat. Sol’s attendants helped her remove the furs they had draped around her shoulders, though Sol protested. The slaves had dressed her in Cassian style, and Sol hated her gown. Nordese dresses were high-necked and practical, and the common folk wore them with leggings beneath and slits up the skirt to facilitate movement. Sol’s dress rested off her shoulders and its neckline swooped low, revealing far too much of her chest, and the bodice and skirt were both restricting.
She pressed a hand to her chest and tried to yank the fabric up, but one of the attendants pushed her hand away.
<
br /> “Can’t I have anything decent to wear?” Sol asked.
“When they gave us your measurements, they underestimated how well you would fill out your dresses. We’ll have them remade for you,” one of the girls whispered back.
“And let out the hem,” the other said, staring at Sol’s exposed ankles. At least the shoes they had provided Sol had fit her.
“Let me wear my furs,” Sol said, trying to take them back from her attendant, but the girl held them out of reach.
“I think this dress looks well on you,” Jahr said, his eyes lingering on her neckline. “I rather think Prince Turullius will like it.”
She glared at Jahr, but he took her hand and dragged her away from her attendants. He took her into the spacious hall, where Turullius was speaking with a large group of Tokken and Cassian soldiers.
Turullius’ voice was loud and rang through the high-ceilinged room. “We’ll search the city until they’re found. I want to see those Flameskins hung on my wedding day.”
Sol’s stomach lurched. Kelan. She had to warn him to stay away.
Turullius turned toward her and held out a hand. “Come here, my sweet bride.”
She took his hand and tried not to squirm. He pulled her in and kissed her lips. His kiss was gruff and abrupt, as though a kiss was the same as a handshake. It was nothing like the way Kelan kissed her: slow, and wanting, his lips tingling with fire in a way that made her breathless.
“I won’t let anything harm Lady Isabella. We’ll double the guards on the manor. And she’s to be kept here until the Flameskins are found and killed,” Turullius said.
Sol swallowed. Prisoner. There would be no finding Kelan, no warning him. No visits to her mountains.
“I’ll find the ones who attacked you,” Turullius said, and stroked her hair. “Would that please you, my sweet?”
Sol opened her mouth, but Jahr answered for her. “I apologize, Prince Turullius, but she doesn’t speak much Cassian.”
Turullius laughed. “No matter. A woman doesn’t need words. She needs only a pretty face and a large dowry. And you my dear,” he said, pointedly staring at her cleavage, “have a very large dowry, indeed.”
She clenched her fists at her side and held her breath. Jahr took her arm and gave her a warning look.
She slowly exhaled. She was doing this for her family and for her village.
During the banquet she ate little and said nothing. Several of the local Cassian nobles had been invited, and the women laughed at the way Sol ate and at her slanted, Nordese eyes, and were scandalized by her dress. The noblemen, most especially Turullius, made lewd comments about their upcoming nuptials.
Her new home was as gaudy and useless as its guests. Trinkets, paintings, and tapestries covered every inch of wall in a suffocating display of wealth.
The food wasn’t even good. Too flavorful. She was used to lightly flavored meats, plain rice, and vegetables. The spices in the food overwhelmed her, and she could stomach little of it, especially with Turullius beside her.
She stood to excuse herself when the guests began to leave.
Turullius rose and enveloped her hand with his thick fingers. “Are you going somewhere, Lady Isabella?”
“I am tired,” she said haltingly in Cassian.
Turullius’ face brightened. “I’ll show you to your rooms. Come, my dear.”
He took her by the hand and guided her out of the hall toward the staircase. Commander Jahr stood and made to accompany them, but Turullius waved him off. Sol gave Jahr a frightened, wide-eyed look. Jahr wouldn’t abandon her to Turullius, would he?
The prince led her upstairs, murmuring sweet things the real Lady Isabella wouldn’t have understood and that disgusted Sol. He stopped at the end of the hallway and opened a door for her. A trunk of clothes Jahr had supplied was already waiting for her at the foot of the bed.
Turullius wrapped his large hand around her hip and pressed her to him. “We need not wait until we are married to enjoy the time we have together,” he murmured, staring at her neckline.
She tried to twist away from him, but he held her tight. He was squeezing the air out of her, suffocating her. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to inhale to scream, but who would come for her? Who would stop Turullius from taking his bride?
He mashed his lips against her mouth and pulled her closer. “I know you can’t understand me, Isabella, but I will teach you a language all people know.”
“I-I am tired,” she said, pushing away from him. Her whole body shook, and her head spun.
He kissed her cheek and released her. She immediately stepped away from him and pressed herself against the wall, watching him warily.
“I forget the ordeal you’ve been through. Rest, my dear, sweet Isabella. Tomorrow night I will see you properly sent to bed.”
He kissed her hand with his bearded lips and strolled away down the hall. She scurried into the bedroom and locked the door behind her. She ran to the desk and rooted through the drawers for a weapon.
One drawer contained a jeweled letter opener. It was dull, but it looked dangerous.
She gripped it in her hand. If Turullius tried to return to her room tonight, she would be ready.
Chapter 32
Sol
Sol paced the room, letter opener in hand. She couldn’t stay here. She wasn’t noble enough to give herself to a beast like that, especially not after knowing what it was like to have someone like Kelan, who cared about her, who would give his life for her.
She fisted her hands and shoved away the thoughts of Kelan. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him when she had her own prince-sized problem to deal with?
She couldn’t stay here. Not a single night. She would run. She’d return to the mountains and never look back. Jahr could find another girl to play Lady Isabella if he wanted, but Sol refused to play this part.
And maybe, if she got a chance, she could find a way into the Flameskin camp and warn Kelan. She didn’t want to see him hurt because of all this.
She opened the chest of clothes and sorted through them, tossing aside the useless dresses. Jahr had let her keep her old clothes, and they had already been washed and dried, though they were stained and ripped from her travel. It didn’t matter. She never cared to wear another dress like this again.
She stripped off the ridiculous dress and threw it on the ground, then pulled on her wool leggings and tunic, and her burned fur coat as well. Her pa’s emberstone was still in her coat pocket.
She took a fur wrap from the chest of clothing and rolled it up with a blanket from the bed. That would have to do as a bedroll. She could sneak to the kitchens after the banquet ended and steal some food, and a bow if she could find one. They had to have an armory somewhere with so many soldiers around.
She sat on the bed and waited until the night grew late and the noisy guests had all left. Then she waited longer, until she was sure even the guards must be sleeping.
She tied her new bedroll around her back and unlocked the door. She padded soundlessly down the hallway. A huntress was always silent on the hunt, except this time, she was the animal being hunted.
The hall led to a landing above the staircase. Commander Jahr sat in a chair in the center of the hall with his long legs stretched across the landing. He was slumped in the chair, asleep.
She paused, listening. Jahr’s breathing was even and deep.
She took slow, careful steps, praying to all the gods he would stay asleep. She inched closer and a board groaned beneath her foot.
She froze midstep and watched Jahr’s face. His nose twitched, and he scratched it.
She stepped over his legs slowly, carefully. But the hem of her coat brushed his leg.
Jahr jerked upright.
She leapt forward, but Jahr was faster. He tripped her, and she landed hard on her side, then he yanked her upright and had her tightly by the arm before she could get to the stairs.
“I thought you might try to run,” he growled.
“Where were you going?” he demanded.
“Away. Anywhere but here.”
“You have a duty to perform, and I will see that you do it.”
“It’s not my duty. It’s Isabella’s.”
“And it’s your fault Isabella’s dead.”
“Find some other girl who wants to be Turullius’ wife. I won’t marry that pig. I won’t let him touch me.”
“So we let the demons overrun us? Is that what you want?”
“They’re not all demons.”
Jahr roughly dragged her toward her room, opened the door, and shoved her inside.
“You will do this, or I’ll see your family punished. I won’t feel obligated to protect your village if its huntress is a traitor to her own people. Think on that, Lady Isabella.”
He slammed the door and Sol pounded her fists against it. “Let me go!” she screamed. But Jahr had his weight pressed against the door, and it didn’t budge. She whirled around and ran toward the window. She pried at the windowpanes, but the glass was built into the wooden frame of the wall. It wasn’t a window that was meant to open.
She threw herself onto the bed and tried not to sob. She should’ve stayed with Kelan. She wished more than anything to be in the mountains with him again. They could’ve left all of this, the war, the soldiers, Prince Turullius.
But what would he say now that he thought she was Isabella? Would he hate her? Was there a way to get him a message and explain everything to him? Would be able to rescue her if he knew?
She missed his easy smile. She missed the way he seemed to find the humor in the blackest of circumstances. She missed the way he held her, the way his skin prickled with heat.
A pinging at the window scattered her thoughts.
She looked up as another stone clattered against the windowpane. She stepped toward the window and cupped her hands around her face so she could peer outside.
Firefrost: A Flameskin Chronicles Novel Page 15
