“Of course, my lord.”
Regulus stared out the window at the stars while Harold removed his armor piece by piece, tutting at the muck covering it. “Did you go for a swim in a giant mud puddle?”
Regulus chuckled half-heartedly. “More or less.”
“I think you’ll be needing a bath, my lord.”
No argument there. “Tomorrow, Harold.” Regulus peeled off his blood-encrusted tunic. “For now, I need sleep. No, leave that,” he added as Harold moved to collect the armor for cleaning. “Go back to bed.”
Harold nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”
The young man slipped out and Regulus went to his bed. Magnus shifted over just enough to allow Regulus to crawl under the covers, then burrowed against his side.
THE SUN HAD PASSED its zenith when Regulus awoke to Harold hauling his armor out of the room. Magnus placed his head on Regulus’ chest, panting happily. Harold offered to draw a bath and bring food, which Regulus gratefully accepted.
As he waited, Regulus rubbed his thumb over the mark on the underside of his right forearm. Although the mark itself was smooth, the skin around and under it was rough from repeated scarring. The product of too many failed attempts to remove it. The black mark looked like two hollow diamonds connected to a V, with the open side toward his wrist. Despite the scarring, the mark remained, clear as when it first appeared. He stood and walked to the window.
Best not to dwell on what you can’t change. His father’s cousin had said that when Regulus went to live with him at six. “Make the most of your lot in life,” Lord Kimberly would say, usually after punishing Regulus for some minor infraction. “It could be worse.”
Except nothing could be worse than this.
No, he chided himself. Dresden’s voice replaced Kimberly’s in his mind. “You’re my brother.” He could be alone. All his friends could be dead. Or they could have abandoned him any time in the two years he had borne the sorcerer’s mark. They probably should have. Things could be worse. But that knowledge did nothing for his aching soul.
After food and a bath, Regulus strapped on his sword and headed out to the courtyard. Not the oversized black sword. He hated it, and the armor. Both given to him by the sorcerer. No, this was one of his own standard steel broadswords. He didn’t need it within his own castle, but after years as a mercenary, he felt exposed without it. Magnus loped beside him. Even down on all fours, the dog’s head came up nearly to his waist.
A couple servants nodded at him deferentially as he walked to the stables. Something after two years, he was still getting used to. He only had eight servants running the entire castle, plus a handful of guards. The gardens were overgrown and the extra rooms dusty and generally everything was shabby, but he couldn’t risk more watching eyes. He found Sieger groomed and chomping on hay in the stable. The stallion nickered at Regulus.
“Good boy, Sieger.” He scratched Sieger’s neck.
“Glad to see you’re up, Reg,” a voice said from behind him.
Regulus smiled and turned around. “Hey, Drez.”
A little shorter than Regulus and a year younger, Dresden Jakobs was muscular with a constant low-level energy. Thick black brows shadowed his dark eyes, and he kept his thick black hair and beard short and well-groomed. He had a long, angular nose and a dark olive complexion, like most Carasians. Twin scimitars crisscrossed his back as usual.
Dresden was silent for a moment as his piercing gaze bored into Regulus. “Maybe you wouldn’t come back so tired if you let me help.”
“No. If one of you died, what would be the point?” Regulus stroked Sieger’s neck. “I’m not discussing it again.” By the hurt look Dresden gave him, Regulus must have slipped into his captain voice again. “We agreed,” he added quietly.
Agreed I need your support here more than out there.
“I know.” Dresden’s brow furrowed as he scratched behind Magnus’ ears. “What was it this time?”
“Roots of some glowing plant in the Forbidden Marsh guarded by hobgoblins and centaurs.”
“I hate hobgoblins.” Dresden spat.
“I’m aware, old friend.” He didn’t bother to hide his amusement.
“Nasty, troublesome creatures.”
“Apparently they like venison, not just your collection of lucky rabbit feet.”
“I maintain their theft is linked to our getting trapped for two days in that ravine.”
Regulus laughed. “I maintain that link is completely circumstantial.”
“Whatever you say.” Dresden stopped petting Magnus. “Oh, almost forgot.” He pulled a crumpled letter out of his belt and handed it to Regulus.
Regulus glanced at the broken red wax seal on the parchment. A raven’s head over an axe. Drummond. “Reading my missives again, Drez?”
“Only the interesting-looking ones.” Dresden leaned back on his elbows on the door of an empty stall across from Sieger’s. “Plus, we never know how long you’ll be gone. What if it’s pressing?”
“I suppose that’s fair.” Regulus read over the letter.
Lord and Lady Drummond cordially invite you to join them on Springtide the 26th, at 6 in the evening, for a supper party to honor the visit of Lady Tamina Belanger and her daughter, Lady Adelaide Belanger.
He frowned. He hated these parties. Dresden loved them, but Drez flirted with every unmarried woman who would talk to him from the serving girls to the guests.
“Are you going?” Drez asked. “If Adelaide is as pretty as her sister, might be worth it for once.”
Regulus folded the invite and looked at Dresden. “And when have you met her sister?”
“Lady Minerva, Sir Drummond’s wife.” Dresden shrugged. “That’s why they’re visiting, because Minerva Drummond is pregnant.”
He raised a brow. “You know as much gossip as a barmaid.”
“How else am I supposed to amuse myself while you’re off fighting centaurs? So,” Dresden pressed. “You going? It’ll be good for you. Drink some wine, talk to a pretty girl.”
“Assuming I’m not called away,” he said grimly. “And only because it’s the polite thing to do. But I doubt I’ll be talking to any pretty girls.” He elbowed Drez. “You coming along?”
“Obviously. If you’re too stoic and frowny-faced to engage Lady Belanger, you can bet your immortality I will.”
“Frowny-faced? Really.”
Dresden pointed at Regulus’ face. “Exactly! Just like that.”
Regulus realized he was right and rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. But I’m not looking for a wife—”
“Yes, you are. You’re nearly thirty, a lord with enough land and income to live comfortably, and no family. Your bachelorhood is an affront to common decency.”
“What?” Regulus blinked. Sure, Drez had hinted in the past he wanted Regulus to marry. Even as mercenaries, Dresden had sometimes tried to play matchmaker, despite Regulus’ protests. A wife was impractical for a mercenary, and he’d had no interest in casual romance.
“You need somebody other than Magnus, Reg.”
Regulus bent down and covered Magnus’ soft, floppy ears. “Hey, you’ll hurt his feelings. Besides, I have you.”
Even as he said it, he knew Drez had a point. He scratched Magnus’ head. Okay, yes, sometimes he envied his married knights. Sometimes he not only wondered what it would be like to have someone look at him the way Sarah looked at Jerrick, or to hold someone the way Perceval held Leonora, but wanted that. Sure, he wouldn’t mind having someone waiting for him at home. But he couldn’t have that. Not right now. He sighed and straightened.
“Look, maybe if things were different. But with the sorcerer—”
“To hell with the sorcerer.”
Regulus flinched. Even though the sorcerer couldn’t have overheard, Regulus almost expected the mark on his arm to start burning. Nothing happened.
Dresden cursed and shook his head. “See, this is my point! You need a distraction. You need something to get your confidence back
.”
“A wife isn’t a distraction, that’s a commitment.” A commitment Etiros knew he couldn’t make while the sorcerer’s slave.
“I’m not asking you to carry the next eligible noblewoman you meet straight to a chapel.” Drez looked down and kicked at the dirt. “I’m asking you to live your life. I’m asking you to find some joy.” He looked up, his brows pinched. “You might not be free yet, but that doesn’t mean you have to live like a slave. I’m asking you to live like you’re going to be free. Because you will be. Has...he given any indication of how close you are?”
“No.” Sometimes I’m not sure he actually plans to let me go. But he couldn’t think like that. The sorcerer had given his word he would release him when his debt was paid. He had to believe that was true, or he’d lose his mind.
“Well, he will, eventually.” Dresden smirked. “And then you’re going to have no idea what to do with yourself after spending all your time moping. Besides, the moping is insufferable. And this lone wolf act doesn’t suit you. So go meet a pretty girl. Fall in love. Be happy.”
Regulus stared across the courtyard, watching a sparrow flitting through the flower-covered apple trees. All he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was a normal life. But he didn’t want to play pretend. “Not yet. Maybe when—”
“No!” Drez clenched his fists. Magnus whined and licked Dresden’s hand. Dresden relaxed, but he fixed Regulus with an intent glare. “No excuses. We agreed. What’s our mantra?”
Regulus rubbed his forehead. “My circumstances don’t define me. I choose who I am. Not the sorcerer.” The words had helped once. A reminder that his worth, his identity, were not dictated by the sorcerer, or anyone else. That even when his options were limited, his choices still mattered. After two years, the words felt hollow. But to tell Dresden that would feel like letting him down.
“Don’t let him take your life,” Dresden said. Magnus tried to weave between Dresden’s legs, and he pushed the dog aside with an affectionate smile. “So you’re going to be friendly and at least consider getting to know the lovely, eligible Lady Belanger. Do it for me.”
Regulus rubbed the side of his neck. “Drez, she won’t look at me twice.”
“Why?”
“This, for one.” He pointed at the scar stretching down his right cheek to his chin. “Second, even I have heard of Lord Alfred Belanger. He’s wealthy and knows the king. I’m a—”
“Lord,” Dresden cut in.
“Bastard.”
They glared at each other. It shouldn’t matter. He was a lord. But it did, and they both knew it.
“And a mercenary.”
“Former.” Drez scratched his beard. “And a good, honorable, kind man. You’re talking to her.” He nodded once, as if that settled it.
Regulus frowned. “Last I checked, I give the orders around here.” Dresden’s jaw tightened and he wished he could take it back. Guilt twisted his gut. He hung his head. “Okay.”
Dresden grinned, his anger and concern vanishing. “You have to at least try to engage her in conversation. Promise me.”
“Fine.” Regulus gave a terse nod. “But give me a chance. She sees you and your beard first and she won’t want anything to do with my scarred face.”
Dresden stroked his beard. “Ha! I knew you were jealous of my beard.”
Chapter 3
THE KNIFE SPUN THROUGH the air, the sharp edges reflecting the cloudy afternoon sunlight as it arced up and back down. Adelaide caught the blade between her fingertips and absent-mindedly flipped it back up. It cartwheeled up and back down, the hilt landing in her palm. She leaned on the pommel of her saddle, holding the knife out to her side, and stared at the back of Sir Ruddard’s helm, glinting silver above his maroon cloak, as if he weren’t there. She heard the clomp of hooves on the packed, uneven dirt road as if from a distance. Two long days of riding, from before the sun cast its warm glow until the moon cooled the land, had driven her past boredom until her mind—and her legs and rear—felt numb.
Ahead, a large, half-dead walnut tree stretched barren branches over the road. Adelaide moved her fingers down to the smooth, rounded end of the knife’s flat hilt. She raised her arm, and with a fluid motion, straightened her elbow and released the knife. The blade made a soft thunk as it stuck into a low branch just as Sir Ruddard rode under the bough.
“Adelaide!”
Adelaide jumped at her mother’s voice. She looked back over her shoulder at Mother. The breeze teased fly-away hairs from Mother’s crown of dark brown braids. Her skin, a burnt umber a few shades darker than Adelaide’s, had a warm glow from riding all day.
Mother frowned. “What if you had hit Sir Ruddard?” Her Khastallander accent made her vowels sound exaggerated.
“Me?” Adelaide chuckled. “Miss? Not in ages.”
“Garhaa soondir haninai,” Mother said, slipping into Khast as she often did when rebuking her children or when her emotions ran high. Haughtiness is unbecoming.
“Yes, Mother,” Adelaide replied in Khast. She turned as she approached the branch. As she rode beneath the dead limb, she reached up and pulled the knife free. “But even if I had missed, he’s wearing armor,” she said, subconsciously switching back to Monparthian. “He would have been fine.”
“And your blade might have been dulled or chipped,” Mother chided, also switching back to Monparthian. “A hamila takes care of her blade.” A lady.
Adelaide leaned over and slipped the knife back into her boot and adjusted her skirt. “It’s just that the time is going so slowly!” A raindrop fell on her nose, and she glowered at the gray sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Beautiful weather for two days, and in late Springtide, no less. So naturally it would rain the last day.”
Mother laughed. “That should be reason for gratitude, not grumbling.”
She shifted in her saddle. “It seems worse, somehow. Like nature is laughing at us. ‘You thought you could make it all the way to Etchy without getting wet? Let me send a rainstorm your way.’” A big raindrop fell on her forehead, and she wiped it away.
“We could make camp until the rain passes, my ladies,” Sir Ruddard called over his shoulder. Ruddard had taken up the vanguard today. Sir Charing and Sir Hayes rode behind Adelaide, her mother, their two handmaids, and two pack horses. Like knight bookends, Adelaide thought.
“Nonsense,” Mother said. “If it gets too bad, we can stop. But Adelaide has a point. I am tired of traveling. We press on.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Nothing sounded better than finishing this journey, even if Adelaide was unsure about staying with her sister’s new family. Getting off of horseback would be welcome, as would sleeping in a real bed again. More importantly, the sooner they arrived at the Drummond’s, the sooner she saw Minerva. Two years felt like an eternity, and the occasional letter did little to ease her loneliness.
Adelaide pulled the hood of her cloak over her head as the rain fell faster. Why did they have to be riding across pastureland instead of through a forest when it rained? Some trees between her and the sky would be wonderful. She prodded her blue roan gelding, Zephyr, into a trot and moved next to Ruddard.
The rain formed little rivulets down Ruddard’s helm. Droplets clung to his scraggly gray beard. Even though his horse was taller than Zephyr, he was still shorter than her.
“If we don’t stop, when do you think we will arrive?”
Ruddard pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders to protect his chainmail tunic from the rain. “Mid-evening, optimistically.”
That left at least four more hours of riding. She let Zephyr fall back into line. Don’t get me wrong, Zephyr; I love you. But I’m tired. I’m sure you are, too.
About an hour later, hail drove them to a small stand of trees a short distance out of their way. The trees, their leaves still small, provided little protection. Worse, they had to share the space with three cows that refused to move.
While they waited, they ate the last of their food. They st
arted out again as soon as the rain subsided to a light shower. Darkness fell, and a waning crescent moon glinted between clouds. Ruddard slowed his horse and signaled for them to stop as they approached a pass between a couple small wooded hills. The knights behind them pressed in, forcing their caravan into a tighter group. Adelaide eyed the trees. Had he seen something? She leaned forward, pulled her dagger from her right boot, and two throwing knives from her left. Steel scraped against leather as Ruddard drew his sword. Her heart rate increased as her gaze darted from shadow to shadow.
“Is someone there?” Mother murmured.
“Not sure.” Ruddard prodded his horse forward. “Best to be cautious.”
Behind them, Sir Charing drew his sword. Adelaide glanced back as Sir Hayes nocked an arrow. Moonlight glinted on the blade of Mother’s dagger. The maids’ eyes were wide in their pale faces. If anyone attacked them, the handmaids would be useless. Not for the first time, and doubtless not for the last, Adelaide mentally chided the entire kingdom of Monparth for teaching its daughters to rely on men to defend them. As if there would always be a good man available. All the same, she would rather not have today be the day she had to put her training to the test.
They were halfway through the pass when torches lit on either side of them. A dozen or so men dressed in dark, ragged clothing stepped out of the trees. Handkerchiefs hid the lower half of their faces, and they carried an array of battered swords and spears. A large, muscular man bearing a longsword stepped closer.
“My, my. What have we here?” His deep voice carried a note of amusement. “Don’t you know robbers roam these roads after dark?”
“You are bold,” Ruddard adjusted his grip on his sword, “attacking travelers so close to the Drummond Estate.”
“Drummond?” The man laughed. “Nearly an hour away. And we haven’t attacked nobody.” He ran his hand along the flat of his blade, admiring the weapon. Even in the faint light, Adelaide could tell it needed sharpening. “Yet.”
Adelaide prepped the throwing knives, keeping one in her palm while she gripped the other between her thumb and the side of her forefinger. Still, she prayed to Etiros that she wouldn’t need to use them. As her pulse rose, the magic inside her stirred, a constrained energy coursing through her veins. But she had years of practice keeping it hidden.
Prince of Shadow and Ash Page 3
