Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1)

by Melissa Ragland

  He secured his waterskin on his saddle. “No.”

  “…Do you think they’ll double back?”

  “That one might.” He nodded at the now-empty path, but we both knew of whom he spoke.

  The night was half gone by the time I heard muffled footsteps picking their way through the thicket. After hours of waiting, I strained my ears and forced myself to stillness. Only two of them. Good. Huddling in my blankets, the fire crackled cheerfully in my face, Quintin’s bedroll a dark human-shaped mound nearby. My hand clutched my belt knife against my chest, the unfamiliar bulk of leather armor encasing my torso, far too big for my frame. I waited, heart racing, as they slipped into our camp almost silently. It took a monumental force of will to shut my eyes and rely on sound alone to track them. One set of footsteps approached Quintin’s bedroll, the other to mine. I heard a dagger slip free of its sheath near my shoulder, the rustle of his tunic as he knelt down at my back.

  “What the hell-” the other man’s voice mumbled from several feet away.

  At that same moment, a hand closed on my shoulder and I sprang into action. I rolled onto my back, raising my gauntleted left arm to break his grip, and thrust my dagger at anything I could hit. He toppled backward in surprise, the edge of my blade carving a deep gash in his hand and forearm as he raised it out of reflex. Throwing my blankets off, I scrambled away from him, putting the fire between myself and the man who’d mangled my nose. He stood angrily, cursing and shaking his wounded hand.

  “You’re gonna make that up to me, girl,” he hissed. Fear set its icy claws into my chest, an old echo of too-familiar panic paralyzing me where I stood.

  “He’s not here-” his comrade began to say, straightening next to the other bedroll. He stopped short when the point of a sword burst through his chest. Quintin ducked from behind, little more than a blur as he abandoned his first blade to rush his second target.

  I’ve never seen a storm with such fury.

  His first swing separated the guard’s hand from his arm when he made to draw his sword from its sheath. A shriek of pain shattered the treetops as he gaped at the stump of his wrist. My guardian closed what little distance remained, drawing his belt knife and burying it in the man’s thigh. With a gruesome twist, Quintin wrenched the blade free, leaving behind a savage gash a handspan wide and misting the darkness with a spray of blood. His opponent staggered backward, scrambling for purchase in the loose dirt, desperate to escape the onslaught of northern steel. I made myself watch him deliver the killing blow, laying the man open from hip to shoulder with a single arcing swing.

  The guard crashed to the ground, the Tuvrian following closely, staking his sword in the dirt as he went. Hard fingers closed on the brute’s face, dragging that agonized visage up toward his own. It took me a moment to realize what he was doing, kneeling there in the dark. When the final gasp had shuddered into the night, that iron grip loosened and dropped the sellsword’s lifeless shell to the ground with a sickening thud.

  My face will be the last thing you see in this life.

  Quintin stood stiffly, hands clenched at his sides, staring down at that bloodied pile of flesh. Wisps of his wheat hair caught the firelight, torn free from their tidy club. Broad shoulders rose and fell as his lungs heaved beneath that powerful chest. Not out of any exertion. No, cutting them down had been damn near effortless for him. Still, I watched his labored breathing slow, flames dancing across the back of his tunic and down his leather vambraces, the only protection he’d kept for himself. The worn leather breastplate that fit him like a second skin now encased my own, a safeguard upon which he’d vehemently insisted.

  I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak as he took a step backward and wrenched his blade free from the dirt, every movement laced with anger. Crossing to his first target, he planted one boot on the man’s back and retrieved his abandoned sword with a vicious yank. A rip followed as he liberated the cloak from the corpse and promptly sat to clean his blades.

  I could read him, then, in that moment. Rage. It lingered, still, slowly fading as guilt and shame took its place.

  It wasn’t the fact that he’d killed them. We both knew from the start what had to be done. We’d laid our trap to ensure they would die, and die quickly. No, it wasn’t that.

  He had enjoyed it.

  To him – to any Tuvrian – that was a blasphemy most dire.

  I measured every quiet step as I rounded the fire, tugging at the laces on the breastplate he’d lent me. Pulling it free, I dropped it atop his staged bedroll and lowered myself to the ground beside him. Wool hissed against steel as he ignored me, worrying at his blade, fighting to bury his thoughts behind that unreadable mask.

  Two more faces.

  I reached out to place one hand on his arm, coarse linen rough beneath my palm, and he fell utterly still at my touch.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he grated out, avoiding my gaze with determination.

  I tried to find the right words, but there weren’t any. The weight of those lives clung to him, fresh and cruel and undeniable. I knew that weight, had felt it in my soul. It was crushing him, now, right before my eyes. Whatever he saw in that moment of utter savagery, whatever he saw inside himself, it was something he hadn’t known was there.

  Two more faces.

  My hands reached without prompting, grasping the edge of the looted cloak and tearing a generous strip. On the ground between us lay his second blade, blood-streaked steel swallowing the flickering light. My fingers gripped the hilt, dragging its unfamiliar weight over to my lap. I could feel him watching me as I wrapped the wool around my palm and went to work.

  He had killed them, but he’d killed them for me. To protect me. Because of me. I’d picked a fight I couldn’t win, and then played the bait to draw them in close. They were my faces just as much as his. As I scrubbed blood from the fuller, I prayed it was possible, what I’d wondered in the garden so many months ago. For the first time in my life, I prayed to Tuvre, and begged him to let me help carry that burden.

  CHAPTER 30

  “My lord!” Emmett shouted into the house, the door held open as his alarmed face gaped at our disheveled appearance on the stoop. Emmett never shouted. We must have looked terrible. Our ragged mounts milled in the courtyard, a stable boy holding their reins uncertainly. They were tired, and after nearly three days with barely a few scattered hours’ sleep, so was I. We shuffled into the foyer as my parents rushed to see what was the matter.

  “Good gods, Elivya?” my mother gasped at the sight of us. She gathered me into her arms, clutching me to her in a tight embrace.

  When she released me, my father grabbed my face in his massive hands, examining my bruised and blood-crusted nose very much the way Quintin had done, anger and concern creasing his brow.

  “What happened?” he demanded, turning his fierce gaze on my guardian.

  “It’s my own damn fault,” I cut in before he could respond. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

  I could feel Quintin eyeing me sidelong as my father released me. “I’ll expect a full report,” he demanded curtly.

  “My lord,” my companion acknowledged, pressing one fist to his chest in salute.

  “Why didn’t you send word you were coming?” Mother scolded. “Augustus said he’d see you back via the river.”

  Between my exhaustion and the events of the last day, I’d pushed our ultimate purpose to the back of my mind.

  “I needed to return with haste,” I said, forcing my stumbling thoughts into focus. “I need your help.”

  What she read in my face, I’ll never know, but it was enough for her to nod solemnly and call for Greta. “We can talk over supper.” She rattled off a series of orders to our household staff, which included seeing us both bathed and dressed in fresh clothes. My father chafed at having to wait, but she insisted. “Go,” she pressed us. “Wash, refresh, rest a bit. We can hear the whole of it this evening.”

 
Shera squealed excitedly at the sight of me, then immediately gasped and covered her face in horror when she noticed my nose. Still, she wrapped me in a fierce embrace, and I nearly devolved into tears just at the feel of a friend’s arms around me in the wake of such an ordeal.

  Peeling off my breeches and blood-stained tunic, I sank gratefully into the large tub of steaming water, my nose radiating pain through my face. One look in the mirror resulted in immediate regret. It was grotesquely swollen, purple and blue bruising across the bridge, the nostrils an angry red. I touched it gingerly and had doubts about Quintin’s assessment. It sure as hell felt broken.

  The hot water alone nearly put me to sleep, especially when Shera began scrubbing my hair. I asked her gently to hasten, wanting nothing more than to collapse into my bed for a few hours’ rest before dinner.

  She obliged, and I was grateful she didn’t press me for any details about our journey. Instead, she saw me dressed in a clean night shift and left me to my silent bedroom. Sleep claimed me almost instantly.

  When I woke, it took me a few moments to realize that the light peeking through my curtains was of dawn, and not dusk. I’d slept through the afternoon and straight on through the night. Rubbing my head in an attempt to clear the haze, I dragged myself from my bed and found one set of my men’s attire freshly laundered. My sword belt and boots were laid out beside it, the Freyjan shield set neatly atop the clothes. I smiled, knowing Shera was behind the thoughtful gesture.

  The garden was flushed with the arrival of spring, trees speckled with buds and new growth in every bed, a carpet of vivid green emerging from winter’s slumber. I breathed deep the morning air and immediately winced, my nose aching. Muttering a curse, I launched into my warm-ups. Quintin would be there momentarily, I told myself. Surely, he had been as tired as me after our harrowing journey, the remainder of which had passed in bleak, mutual silence.

  After finishing my fifth circuit of one-handed drills, I finally gave up and went to look for him. A kitchen boy pointed me to the stables, where I found him with our two road-weary geldings, his back to me.

  “What’s the idea, not showing up for practice?” I called out as I approached.

  He glanced over one shoulder at me, his face carefully blank. My eyes narrowed, flicking past him, taking in the scene. One of the horses was saddled, the other loaded as a pack-horse.

  “You’re leaving?” Anger and disbelief cut sharp edges into my voice.

  He looked away again, hands tugging a stirrup strap into place. “Just for a few months. I’ll be back before the solstice.”

  I swallowed the growing lump in my throat. Just like before, the thought of his absence filled me with irrational dread. Had he even intended to tell me? Or was he going to just leave without saying a word? To ask as much felt childish, so I inquired after his destination instead, struggling to keep my voice steady.

  “Home,” he replied hollowly, offering nothing else as he led both horses out into the courtyard.

  I followed, the feeling of betrayal in my gut fanning the flames of anger. “To Tuvria? What about Adrian? What about my training?”

  He climbed into the saddle, securing his pack-horse’s lead line to his pommel. “Continue your drills,” he instructed, his tone infuriatingly detached. “When I return, we’ll pick up where we left off.” Without even looking at me, he tapped his heels and trotted out the main gate, disappearing into the city.

  I stood there a long moment, stunned and hurt. Sure, we argued a lot, but for him to leave without even bothering to mention it to me seemed uncharacteristically cold. He might be stubborn and sharp-tongued, but we’d built some small measure of rapport over the last year in Elas; a comfort in each other’s constant company. He wouldn’t just leave. Not without reason.

  But I had given him reason. I’d seen the wave of shame and guilt that had followed in the aftermath of his unbridled rage. He carried four faces for me, now. Maybe that was too many. Or maybe my parents had sent him away, an unjust punishment for my own foolish actions.

  Whatever the reason, my hurt turned quickly to anger.

  “I told you it wasn’t his fault,” I blurted out, storming into the dining room to find my parents chatting quietly over their breakfast. I barely noticed the absence of the rest of our staff, distracted as I was. “I told you-”

  “Sit down, Elivya,” my mother’s sharp tone cut me short, bright green eyes hard with anger, but I wasn’t about to let it go without some answers.

  “You sent him away,” I accused, hands clenching at my sides. Neither one replied, just kept staring at me with those hard, disapproving eyes. “Why?”

  “He will return.”

  “When.”

  “When his task is done,” she replied curtly, clearly unwilling to divulge any more than that. “Now sit. Eat.”

  Eyes followed as I slumped into my seat and filled my plate, abruptly aware of my light head and formidable hunger. I’d not eaten since the night before the attack. Given the conspicuous lack of interrogation, I guessed they had pulled every detail of our journey from Quintin at dinner the night before, so I ate in silence, brooding over my companion’s indifferent farewell and my parents’ deliberate ambiguity.

  “First and foremost,” my father began after a few tense minutes, and I could tell by his tone that a lecture was imminent. “You should know how glad we are that you are home, and safe. That being said, your actions these last few days were reckless at best. Your mother insists you are capable of understanding the gravity of the situation at hand, but your choices reflect otherwise.” His evergreen eyes glinted angrily. “We sent Augustus to Elas for a reason. You were to mind him and return with him as your escort.”

  “I am of age, Father. I don’t need an escort.” The words came out more bitterly than I’d intended, my mood soured by Quintin’s desertion, and his tone sharpened in response.

  “You are my daughter, and as yet unwed. The roads are growing more perilous by the day. We thought our letter would sufficiently impress upon you the danger we are facing.”

  “It did.”

  “Then why would you take such a risk?” he demanded.

  I proceeded to explain the state of the White Sea, and Adrian’s impossible situation, describing as best I could the observations I’d made on the docks: the refugees coming off the ships in tattered masses, the captain and his haunted eyes, the discontent among the sailors on the wharf. In dispassionate and pragmatic terms, I told them of Adrian’s predicament, his father’s displeasure, and the pressure from the merchant guilds. Then I fell silent and waited.

  My mother shifted in her seat, gears turning behind her eyes. “You mean to petition the King.” An observation, more than a question.

  “I must,” I replied in earnest. “If there is any chance he will send reinforcements from the Royal Navy, I have to try.”

  My father’s gaze dropped to the glass in his hand. “Amenon refuses to see anyone. Even me.”

  I measured my reply carefully as I watched him in his quiet grief. “I would petition him alone.”

  They refused outright at first, but I was insistent. As Adrian’s betrothed and future Lady of Daria, it was my right to entreat the Crown on behalf of his House. The distance I put between myself and my own parents could work to my advantage, lending me a level of anonymity that Amenon might find less threatening.

  At length, my father threw up his hands in frustration and left us, deferring to my mother’s judgment. She sat impossibly still across the table from me, the retreating pace of heavy boot steps the only sound to pierce the thick silence between us. I held that penetrating gaze, steady in my conviction, as the last echoes faded.

  “People do foolish, desperate things in the name of love.” Ice. Pure ice, slipping from her lips to cut the air like a knife. “I thought I had taught you better.”

  Chastened, I flushed. Her disappointment wounded me deeper than my father’s anger. “Would you rather see h
is House fall?” I challenged. “I’ll not sit here and wait for news that he was slain at sea. You taught me to act.”

  Peridot eyes flashed as she leaned forward in her chair, jabbing the table with one finger. “I taught you to gauge the landscape. To weigh the risks, then act.”

  “There is no time!” I gasped in frustration.

  “You put yourself and Quintin at great risk to pursue this course, not to mention this House.” She stood, staring me down. “You ought not be so reckless with the lives of those who care for you.”

  I bit my tongue, hands fisted in my skirts.

  “Write your petition and bring it to me. Then, I will decide.” She strode purposefully from the room, leaving me alone, and I released the trembling breath I’d been holding.

  A pile of blank sheets stared up at me from the desk, a fresh bottle of ink waiting expectantly nearby. I stared back, unmoving, the quill dry and still in my hand.

  How do you reach someone who is lost in grief so profound you cannot even comprehend it? By all accounts, the depth of Amenon’s misery was consuming him, a vast canyon of darkness that left no room for kind words or gestures of friendship. I needed to shed a glimmer of light, of hope, into that chasm.

  Many drafts later, I folded my petition, tucked it into a drawer, and went to the stables. Bow and quiver strapped to my chest, I simply told the stable boy where I was going and left. Even with my sword belt on my hips, I felt exposed and vulnerable without my familiar shadow at my side, but I was too proud to hunt down Gabe or Preston. On one of the plain household mounts, I rode out those gates alone and returned several hours later, a brown hare tied to my saddle with an arrow still jutting from its chest.

  After refreshing myself in the washbasin and changing into a simple cotton gown, I presented my final version to my mother in my parents’ study. She sat at the large desk, poring over a pile of maps and letters, her gaze lifting at the sound of my entrance. Worry and frustration flickered on her face for a mere moment before she closed it to me.