Clouds hung an ominous grey, threatening, but not giving, more rain. Which was a relief from the constant drizzle since they’d left the sorcerer’s house. Kaelyn’s clothes were damp and itchy and her feet hurt. She snorted. With all the walking she’d done, she would have thought she’d be used to it by now. But her boots had rubbed one of her heels raw and the scab over her wound ached and pulled.
Wyndham hadn’t said more than a few words to her and she couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or not. By the time she’d finished her conversation with the sorcerer, Cat had left, having told Wyndham his brother Harcourt was responsible for the slaughter at Mythnar along with the merchant barons–although he couldn’t name anyone else. Cat hadn’t thought Reynold was involved, which was at least a small blessing.
She couldn’t begin to imagine what Wyndham was thinking, only that from his expression it wasn’t pleasant.
A solider stepped from the underbrush, sword drawn. “State your business.”
Kaelyn rested her hand on her sword hilt, but didn’t draw. If they could trust this man she didn’t want to start a fight.
“Prince Wyndham?” The soldier’s blade dipped. “We thought you were dead.”
Wyndham pursed his lips. “I need to talk to Reynold.”
The solider bobbed his head. “This way.” He led them to a wide meadow filled with tents, and men, and horses, organized with military precision.
The closest soldiers, lounging near a camp fire, leapt to their feet, but didn’t draw their weapons. They shot confused looks at each other, as if they couldn’t believe who’d walked into camp.
Wyndham’s name rippled through the army, growing louder and louder. That veil over his expression, the one she’d seen when they were dancing in Carthway, drew across his face. He nodded and waved at the men, but didn’t pause. The men flocked around him, and his name grew into a chant.
Kaelyn shivered at their reaction. It reminded her too much of the clansmen at Angwyn. Thank goodness it wasn’t directed at her this time.
They marched between the tents to a central square and a large, ornate tent. Its flaps flew back and a tall man rushed out. His dark hair, cut to shoulder length, hung free about his face accentuating his pale skin and chiseled features.
“What is–” His gaze landed on Wyndham. Something flashed across his face, so fast Kaelyn wasn’t certain she saw it, then he smiled and spread his arms wide. “Wyndham.”
Wyndham sucked in a quick breath. “We need to talk.”
“How did you–?” The man glanced at Kaelyn, but he didn’t linger.
Guess he didn’t know her or didn’t recognize her.
She couldn’t help but wonder which it was.
Inside, the tent was plain. A large table took up the center, covered with maps and parchment and surrounded by stools. At the back sat a narrow cot.
A small man swept into the tent, his dark robes accentuating his white hair, skin, and eyes. As if all color had been leeched from him.
“Prince Reynold, the soldiers–” He jerked to a stop and stared at Kaelyn.
Ice raced down her spine and she fought the urge to hug herself. He seemed so familiar. Harsh words whispered through her memory, but she couldn’t get them to focus. Buzzing flitted through her–a ghost of something forgotten–then disappeared.
The man’s gaze leapt to Wyndham. “Prince Wyndham.”
“Apparently we are on our way to avenge a death that hasn’t happened,” said Reynold.
Wyndham sagged to the closest stool and ran a hand through his damp hair. “You’ve been deceived.”
Reynold sat beside him, but looked at the man with the white eyes. “Have mulled wine brought to the tent.”
Distaste flickered across the man’s expression, but he nodded and left.
A weight eased from Kaelyn’s chest. The enclosure seemed brighter, as if a miasma had swept out.
“What happened?” asked Reynold, squeezing Wyndham’s shoulder. “Is it true?”
Wyndham gulped and that veil fell across his face again. “Mythnar was ablaze when we left. I don’t know about Mother and Gregor. Kaelyn and I barely escaped.”
Reynold glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised. “My Lady Wintherford.”
She dipped into a quick curtsey. “Your Highness.”
“Reynold, it was Harcourt and the merchant barons.”
“What? Harcourt? Which merchant barons?”
“We don’t know. The clansmen delegation was slaughtered as well and we’ll be lucky if the north doesn’t demand blood debt.”
“Harcourt and the northern legionnaires were half a week’s march from Mythnar doing training exercise when it happened.”
Wyndham snorted. “How convenient. Clear out the barrack leaving only the royal guard to do the job.”
Reynold pursed his lips. “Are you sure the guard was involved? How do you know this?”
Wyndham glanced at Kaelyn but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking and was too tired to try.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Reynold. “Harcourt and his army are marching on Carthway for a quick retributive attack.”
“We can’t let that happen. Another war with the clans would be disastrous.”
“Agreed.”
The man with the white eyes entered along with a servant laden with steaming mugs, bringing back the sense of darkness.
“You’ll leave at first light with a contingent of knights. If Harcourt is using your death as an excuse to motivate revenge, your presence should be enough to make the men reconsider.”
“What about the merchant barons?” asked Wyndham.
“I’ll return to Vitreah and start an investigation. Until then, we should get some rest.”
Reynold called in more servants. A second cot was brought into his tent for Wyndham and a knight and his squire were evicted from theirs for Kaelyn. After a quick meal with Reynold and his advisor, Meeshmaltok, that lasted far too long for Kaelyn’s comfort, they were left alone. Preparations that Reynold and Meeshmaltok needed to oversee were necessary to return to Vitreah.
Wyndham finished his mulled wine and stood. “We should probably get some sleep. I’ll walk you to your tent.”
“How chivalrous. But I’m more worried about you.” All night she had the sensation that Reynold wasn’t saying something, but she couldn’t figure out what. And she didn’t even want to think about Meeshmaltok.
“I’m sharing a tent with Reynold and we’re surrounded by our army.”
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t mention that they’d thought they were safe in Mythnar, too.
He offered her his elbow and escorted her from the tent. It was only a few feet away, on the other side of the small square.
“Everything will be fine, now.” But he didn’t sound as if he believed his words.
They paused at the tent flap and she ran her hands up his arms to his biceps. She wanted to agree with him, help him reassure himself, but she couldn’t. Something about tonight made her stomach churn. That sense of danger that she’d had in the temple in Norwell a year ago, a lifetime ago, trembled within her.
“Why don’t you–” she swallowed hard. “Why don’t you stay the night . . . in my tent.”
“I–” He glanced over her shoulder.
She could only imagine what he was thinking. There were two meanings to her offer: to keep him safe and to be with him. And she meant both.
“I–” He sucked in a slow breath. “I can’t.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Wyndham, please.”
“It’s not proper.”
“To heck with propriety. I can’t protect you in Reynold’s tent.”
He stiffened. “You don’t need to.”
“Wyndham.” Damn. She shouldn’t have been practical. Practicality keep getting in their way.
“Please.” His voice was low. “We are surrounded by Meriduin’s army. If Mother and Gregor are dead and Harcourt convicted of treason I’m heir apparent. My life is even less my own now than it was before.”
“But–”
“No.” He stepped back, holding her at arm’s length. “This is the way it must be done. I appreciate all your help. You have not sworn a knight’s allegiance to me and are free to go.” His gaze dropped to his feet then flickered back up to hers. “But I wish you’d stay.”
Her gut churned. He seemed so different, so cut off. A part of her knew he was right, but it felt so wrong.
She dropped into a curtsey, her eyes burning with tears. “As my Prince wishes.”
“Kaelyn.”
“If my Lord requires my services you know where I am.” She fled into the tent before he could call her back or see her cry.
Ancient Father, she was such a fool. Everything about him that had seemed so comforting the other night was now cold. But that was who he was. A Prince of the House of Vitreah. Had it hurt so much the first time she’d been reminded of her place? They were not equals. Even if they were friends he’d still be able to command her.
And now she knew he commanded her heart as well. His very glance made her chest ache. His hair and eyes–
Everything about him.
She flung herself on the cot and buried her face in the pillow. Stupid, stupid girl. She’d had a chance to start over. She’d forgotten him, met someone else–even if that someone hadn’t, and wouldn’t ever, notice her. But, like a bard’s tragedy, she’d been drawn back to him. She loved him. She would always love him. And it didn’t matter if he felt the same way or not.
She wished Mac was with her. She longed for his gruff wisdom, but she knew what he’d probably say. ‘Live with it. Move on.’
But how did a person move on from something like this?
Someone cleared his throat and she jerked up. A heavyset man with a puckered scar running across his face stood in the opening.
Her heart sank. It wasn’t Wyndham. Of course he wouldn’t come back. He’d chosen duty over her.
“My Lady Wintherford,” said the man.
“What can I do for you?”
He stepped into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him. His lip curled back in a sneer and he eased his sword from its sheath.
