Blood rushed to Regulus’ face. He dropped his hand to his side. Dresden turned toward the tent entrance.
“Drez, wait—”
“That’s a bit familiar for your servant, isn’t it, master?”
“I didn’t—” But Drez walked out of his tent. “...mean it.” Shame twisted Regulus’ stomach. He groaned and kicked the leg of the cot.
Regulus had never viewed Dresden as inferior, despite their often unequal and complicated relationship. Dresden calling Regulus master had only been to appease Regulus’ strict childhood guardian. One of many things Regulus had done over the years to protect his friend. But nothing could erase that Dresden had been little more than a slave for seven years. Nothing negated that there had been times as a captain when Regulus couldn’t make an exception, not even for his lieutenant. He shouldn’t have snapped. But it was Dresden’s own fault for pushing him. And Dresden shouldn’t have thrown such a low blow in return.
It took Regulus an hour to cool off and swallow his pride enough to leave his tent, but he couldn’t leave things like that. Caleb lounged in front of his own tent, strumming on his lute. Harold and Jerrick were talking while Harold polished a pair of boots. They all went silent and looked up at Regulus.
“He’s in his tent.” Jerrick looked at Regulus through narrowed eyes. “But enter at your own risk.”
Caleb plucked at a string on his lute, pointedly not making eye contact with Regulus. “Haven’t seen him that riled in a while.”
Thankfully, Dresden hadn’t fastened his tent door closed. Regulus ducked inside. Dresden had his double scimitars in both hands, moving through his drills between his cot and a small leather trunk. He spun around just as Regulus entered, and Regulus jumped back. Dresden lowered the blades and bowed his head.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Drez, don’t. I told you never to call me that.” Regulus chewed on his cheek. “I’m sorry, okay?” No, it’s not okay. “I crossed a line. I didn’t mean anything by it. And I’m sorry.”
Dresden’s scimitars twitched, but he raised his head.
“You’re right. I don’t talk to you.” Regulus rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, I’m afraid. Afraid I’ll hurt one of you. Afraid you’d lose all respect for me if you knew the things I’ve done.”
“Reg.” Drez sighed, hurt in his pinched expression. “Don’t you know me better than that? We’re brothers. We need each other. Being a lone wolf doesn’t make you stronger, just lonely and vulnerable. You used to tell the mercenaries wolves were strongest when they worked together. When did you stop believing that?”
When my presence became a threat. Drez didn’t give him time to reply.
“And we’re mercenaries. We’re not squeamish. Besides, it’s not you. It’s not who you are. You’re doing what you have to; it’s not like you enjoy it.”
“But I’m still doing it.” He stared at the trampled grass beneath his boots.
Dresden shuffled his feet. “If it was me...would you leave?”
Of course not. “I don’t know. You’ve never attacked me in cold blood.”
“I’ve felt like attacking you in hot blood.” A hint of mirth crept into Dresden’s voice. He placed the weapons on the trunk. “I’m still not abandoning you. Even if I have to tell you a hundred times a day: it’s going to be okay, you’ll make it through this, you’re still worthy, still my brother. And Regulus...it wasn’t you. If Harold and I can accept that, why can’t you?”
Because it was still my fault. The words stuck in his throat, too raw, too shameful and excruciating to let out of the darkness of his mind. Because I saw the light in your eyes fading, felt you dying as I squeezed your throat. Because your tear-stained face as you begged me to remember you—when I did, when I knew you, but I couldn’t control my own body—still haunts my dreams.
The cot squeaked as Dresden sat on it. “He hasn’t controlled you—”
“He has.” Regulus didn’t look at Dresden.
“...what?”
Regulus closed his eyes and spoke quietly. “Four times since then. Just not at the castle. A momentary hesitation, a brief refusal, temporary uncertainty. Usually just long enough to remind me he can. And I’ve been tortured so many times I’ve lost count.” The silence that followed his admission threatened to swallow him alive.
“Etiros above, Regulus. Why?”
Regulus opened his eyes. “He’s easily angered. And I’m...stubborn and resentful.”
“No. Why haven’t you told me?” Hurt reflected in Dresden’s eyes.
“Telling you doesn’t change it.”
“You’re a damned fool.”
“You’re right,” he murmured. “That’s why I don’t deserve Adelaide.”
Dresden was silent for a moment. “So? You haven’t endangered us; you won’t endanger her. Maybe having someone else to protect will help you be smarter. You’re better around her, Reg. More hopeful. You should tell her the truth.”
“What?” Regulus jerked his head up. “Are you out of your mind?”
“You’re so afraid she won’t accept you, you’re about to push her away. Why not give her that choice? You will lose her by walking away, anyway. Doesn’t she deserve a chance to decide for herself if she wants to take the risk? Just like the rest of us did?”
Regulus worked his jaw. Dresden had a point. If Regulus and Adelaide’s roles were reversed, wouldn’t he want the truth? Wouldn’t he want a chance to choose acceptance or not? But if he walked away now...yes, he might lose her. But he wouldn’t have to live with the pain of seeing the way she looked at him change. But if she could understand, if she could love him anyway... He longed for her acceptance as much as he longed for freedom.
“Do you even like her, Reg?”
“Excuse me?”
Drez threw his hands in the air. “You’re giving up so easily, she must not be that special.”
Heat flared in his chest. “Of course she’s special!”
“Then tell me why!”
“She’s...” Regulus looked away and took a deep breath as he pictured her smile. The thought of her calmed his jittery nerves. “She’s smart and capable and confident. She’s humorous and kind. She’s honest. And...she sees me. Not a servant’s son, or a mercenary, or a captain. Not someone she owes anything to. More than a walking testament to my father’s infidelity. Not an imposter or just a title. Not a slave. I haven’t met someone who sees me apart from all of that since we were children. And it took you months to see me as your friend.”
As he spoke, he understood. He might never find someone like Adelaide again. And if she could see him now, maybe she could see him in spite of his link to the sorcerer. Drez was right. He wasn’t protecting her. He was hiding.
“If you mean all that, how can you walk away?”
“Fine.” Regulus nodded. “I’ll consider telling her.”
“And you’ll go to the dance?” Dresden crossed his arms, his gaze sharp, the hard slant of his mouth allowing no argument. “You owe me after that ordering stunt.”
Regulus winced. An opportunity to hold Adelaide in my arms? He sighed, losing the battle with both himself and Drez. “Yes.”
Chapter 26
“YOU KNOW WHAT MOTHER would say?” Minerva sat on Adelaide’s cot. Early evening light still filtered through the heavy green fabric of the tent. A few candles illuminated the interior—her cot on a small wooden frame, Giselle’s straw mattress in the corner, and a trunk with a cloak on it. A large rug covered most of the ground.
Adelaide sat on a stool, looking at her reflection in a small mirror hung on the tent wall. She stuck another pin in her hair to hold the ribbon-accented braid in place atop her head. “Probably something cautionary I don’t want to hear.”
“She’d probably say you can’t go getting swept off your feet by any good swordsman.”
“I’m not in love with him because he’s a good swordsman.” She stuck in another pin.
“Ah, but you admit you’re in love wit
h him.”
“What? I—” She jabbed herself in the head with a pin and winced. “In love is a little much. Besides, I thought you were supporting this...whatever it is?”
“Courtship?”
She glared at Minerva. “We’re not courting.”
“Not officially,” Minerva smirked, “but you might as well be. Gracious, after his victory I thought you two were going to kiss. And not the little peck I saw you give him.”
“Hmph.” Adelaide turned back to the mirror, trying to act nonchalant. There was a moment there...he had been so close. She had felt a fluttering in her stomach. The look in his eyes, intense as a bonfire yet clear as an undisturbed lake on a cool morning. She had wanted him to kiss her. To put his hand behind her head and pull her in. For a moment, she had considered kissing him herself. But then that look of pain. That... Sadness in his eyes.
She tried to ignore the nagging impression something was wrong. Maybe she saw in him what she felt in herself. That feeling of lying. Of hiding the truth. When he reminded her of the cut on his leg, she had wanted to heal it. She could have insisted she go with him to the physician’s tent, pulled him aside on the way and healed him. Good as new.
As soon as the idea had occurred to her, she decided against it. Not yet. But if she couldn’t trust him now, could she ever trust him? Was her hesitance only the echoes of warnings from her parents? Or something more? What should she do when her heart screamed to trust him and her mind urged caution?
Minerva laid a hand on her shoulder. “What are you thinking?”
“About why—or if—I trust Regulus.” Adelaide chewed on her lower lip. “I’m too used to not trusting. How do I know if I should? Father always says to never let emotions make your decisions. But when your emotions are so involved, how can you tell if you’re being rational or not? Am I paranoid not to trust him? Am I foolish to trust him?”
Minerva squeezed her shoulder. “These are things you can determine with time, Ad. You don’t need to decide if you’re marrying him today. Sooner or later, you’ll know. Like I knew with Gaius.”
“Yes, but you didn’t have a secret.”
“I knew yours. I still keep that one.”
Adelaide paused, her hands poised above her head as she checked the braid. “I’m sorry. It can’t be easy.”
Minerva shrugged and stroked her growing belly. “Sometimes, I’d like to talk to him. It’s not that I don’t trust him; I know if I told him he wouldn’t tell a soul. But it’s not my secret to share.”
“But it is mine.” Adelaide dropped her hands to her lap. “What if...” She fiddled with the belt of her dress. “What if I tell him, and it’s not that he wants to use my power, or he tells someone he shouldn’t? What if...”
“What if it scares him?”
Adelaide looked at Minerva. Anxiety gnawed at her stomach.
Minerva chuckled and shook her head. “Based on what I’ve heard, how he acts, and how he fought today, I’m not sure anything scares that man.”
“But what if it’s too...strange?”
“Regulus hasn’t lived his whole life in Monparth. For all you know, he’s met a mage before.”
She hadn’t considered that.
“All right.” Adelaide nodded. “I’ll get to know him more. Focus on that, not whether or when to tell him.”
“Good.” Minerva held out her hand, and Adelaide helped her to her feet. “Ready for supper and dancing?”
Adelaide smiled as her gaze went to Min’s belly. “Only if little Adelaide is.”
“Oh ho, really?” Minerva laughed. “Gaius’ mother is determined it’s a boy.”
Adelaide laughed and hunched over to talk to Min’s stomach. “You’re a girl, aren’t you? We shall throw knives and climb trees and speak Khast and I’ll tell you stories about your mother’s childhood shenanigans.”
“I think not on that last one.” Minerva rolled her eyes as she grinned. “And just because you’re the better knife thrower doesn’t mean you can steal my job. If the little one’s a girl, I’ll teach her like Mother taught me.” Her grin turned mischievous and her eyes glinted. “You can teach future little girl Hargreaves to throw knives.”
Adelaide choked on a gasp as her face flushed. “That’s it, I’m not speaking to you for the rest of the night, Tha Lonri.” She took one final glance in the mirror and headed out, Minerva’s laughter following her.
REGULUS WALKED INTO the gate at the end of the jousting arena and looked around, impressed. Benches and tables filled the arena. Lanterns hung from posts positioned around the low walls and in the stands. Candelabras glowed on each table. Commoners crowded stands, taking full advantage of the hospitality of the tournament. They would eat the same food as the nobles, but they weren’t allowed to eat with them. Nobles were already finding seats at the tables in the arena. No one told them where to sit in the spirit of the tournament. All hereditary nobles could compete, and thus all were equal at the tournament. Except they weren’t.
The nobles sorted themselves. Knighted freemen, like Regulus’ knights, sat with the commoners. They could get into the arena if they wanted, no one checked letters of nobility here. A title would suffice. But the legacy nobles made their disdain clear. Even most poor knights felt more comfortable with the other freemen. Within the arena, the wealthier and more famous nobles claimed the seats closest to Baron Carrick’s table, positioned below his viewing box in the center of the arena.
Regulus headed for that table. As one of the day’s champions, he had been invited to sit with the tournament’s host. Baron and Baroness Carrick’s high-backed chairs sat in the middle, flanked by two chairs on either side. A page stood to the table’s left. A couple other winners were also arriving. Regulus recognized the sturdy man with silver hair as Sir Gerald Malone, champion of the archery competition. He hadn’t watched or paid attention to any of the other competitions that day, so he didn’t recognize the tall, lithe man with the red hair and beard.
The page directed Sir Malone to the chair on the far right and directed Red to the next seat. He pointed Regulus to the chair on the far left. Regulus leaned on the arm of the empty chair next to him and extended his hand across three seats to Red. “Lord Regulus Hargreaves.”
The man shook his hand with a grip like a vise. “I know.” He had a deep, commanding voice. “Everyone is talking about you, Lord Hargreaves. I only caught your last fight, but it was impressive.”
“And you are?” Regulus felt a little swell of pride, but kept his posture relaxed.
“Lord Frederick Ganlar, son of Duke Ganlar. Long staff champion.”
Regulus nearly gasped. As one of three ducal families in Monparth, the Ganlars were practically royalty. Three barons and several lords, including Adelaide’s father, owed Duke Ganlar their fealty. What was he doing competing in a tournament held by a lesser noble?
Ganlar laughed. “I know what you’re thinking, Lord Hargreaves. I’m here for the same reason as everyone else. Sport, my friend.”
“Pardon my confusion, but you came all the way from Nueres Duchy to compete in the long staff?”
“And why not? As you can see, I’m good at it.” He held up his hands and lifted one shoulder. “But mostly, I can’t compete in Nueres. Men get nervous about fighting their liege’s heir. They make mistakes they otherwise wouldn’t. Takes all the fun out of it.”
“But...why not the sword?” Sir Malone asked the question Regulus hadn’t dared.
“Because that’s what everyone would expect.” Ganlar stroked his big red beard. “I enjoy surprising people. But mostly I enjoy the long staff. It has its own unique cadence. And the added challenge of not being able to rely on any sharp edges.”
“Speaking of which, that looked to be a nasty cut Sir Carrick landed on your leg,” Sir Malone said. “I’d rather expected you to have a limp.”
“Oh.” Dread circled Regulus’ throat. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked. And the physician did a good job.”
“Not to be
crass,” Ganlar said, leaning back in his chair, “but you look like you’re not a stranger to pain.”
Regulus clenched his fist under the table. “I suppose that’s accurate.”
“Oh, brilliant.” Carrick’s voice behind Regulus was cold as ice. “Whose idea was this seating arrangement?”
“Mine.” Baron Carrick approached the table, his wife at his side. “I’m giving you a second chance to demonstrate honor in defeat. You have one victory and one loss today, but if you continue to act like a child, you will have lost your dignity.” His mouth turned down. “So far you’re not doing well.” Baron and Baroness Carrick took their seats, the Baron sitting beside Lord Ganlar.
Carrick hesitated for a moment, then took the seat between the baroness and Regulus. Regulus ignored him. He sensed Carrick’s animosity, and it sparked a reciprocal loathing.
The baron welcomed and thanked the attendees and praised the competitors. Carrick had won the polearm competition. Once the baron gave the word, servants began dispersing food and the cacophony of hundreds of voices in competing conversations filled the arena.
“My mistake,” Carrick said, his voice a low whisper, his head angled toward Regulus, “was doing polearm and sword. If I had skipped polearm, I would have had more energy. I would have beaten you.”
Regulus bit into a turkey leg. He wanted to ignore Carrick. Pretend he hadn’t heard. But what was the saying? Kindness burns like hot coals? Something like that. “You fought admirably, Sir Carrick. Particularly after winning in the polearm. Perhaps you are correct. But regardless, you should not be ashamed of how you fared.”
Carrick gripped his flagon so hard his knuckles turned white. “I’m the son of a baron. Shame isn’t an emotion I feel. But you will. I promise you.”
“Did you say something, Nolan?” The baroness looked at them with a smile, but her eyes were cold beneath her blue wimple. Such an old-fashioned woman.
“Just congratulating Lord Hargreaves on his win, Mother.” Carrick’s smile looked painfully forced. “And looking forward to tomorrow’s joust.”
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