Zander
“Idid tell you what I thought of this plan, did I not?”
I sidestep a mortal hauling a bag of grain over his shoulder. The upward climb from the market is steep and sweat pours from the man’s forehead. “That you do not approve, that I am an idiot, and we will both likely get ourselves killed, in which case you will haunt me in Azo’dem for all eternity.”
“Oh, good.” Abarrane nods with satisfaction. “I wanted to be certain you heard me.”
I smirk at the warrior. She has commanded the Legion for nearly a century, after the last commander fell during the war at the rift. My father always warned me that my gravest mistake as king would be losing her counsel, loyalty, or sword. It’s probably why I never acted on the brazen suggestions she’s made over the years, the Legion commander attempting to bed the prince. A joke, perhaps, or a test to see what kind of leader I would be. Either way, I’m happy I abstained. I value my friends too greatly, especially now.
Which is why I am banking on my friendship with Theon standing against Atticus’s preposterous claims that I want to see Islor fall.
It’s been decades since I visited Bellcross. Not much has changed, though the streets seem busier than when Theon and I were mere children running around, causing mischief. The lord’s castle ahead looks much the same, save for the vines growing along the wall, the mature trees that fill out the private garden, and the red clay tiles on roofs that were once thatched.
Behind us, a clock tower gongs seven times, drawing my focus down over the city. Time is moving quickly, and Romeria is somewhere out there. A key caster with no clue how to wield her power, in the poisonous body of Ybaris’s heir to the throne, weaving around the clueless folk of Bellcross.
I can still feel her slight body pressed against mine from earlier. Despite my best efforts to keep my distance, for those brief moments, enclosed in that tiny space within the wall, I lost my resolve. I was ready to ignore all our problems. I didn’t want to let her go.
“You fret worse than Corrin,” Abarrane scolds. “She has two legionaries, Elisaf, and a caster with her. She will be fine. Worry about keeping your own skin for the meantime.” She jerks her chin ahead, toward the guards at the main gate—three Islorians with shiny suits of armor that have likely never seen a day of battle.
I fear their day is coming, and soon.
“Halt. Come no closer!” the middle one barks, his hand shifting to the pommel of his sword. “State your business or be gone.”
“I am here to see Lord Rengard.”
The one on the left sneers. “My lord does not answer requests from drifters who walk up to his gate.”
“Drifters.” I peer down at my leathers. They may not be kingly, but they are far from impoverished.
“You always did say you preferred traveling incognito. How do you enjoy it now?” Abarrane mocks, sizing up the speaker. “Permission to gut him like the animal we roasted on our spit last night, Your Highness?”
The three share a wary glance. She could have them disarmed and disemboweled before they had the chance to raise an alarm. But I imagine it’s the Highness that has them more perplexed.
I sigh. “Please inform your lord that the king of Islor and commander of the Legion are standing outside his gate like drifters, and we wish to speak with him.”
“My sincerest apologies, Your Highness.” The guard bows a third time before rushing out of Theon’s private solar. We didn’t have to wait long before the gate swung open, and Theon’s guards clambered over themselves to lead us here.
“Happy now?”
Abarrane paces around the settee. “I am never happy.”
“I am certain he soiled himself.”
The corners of her mouth twitch. “Maybe a little happy.”
I pause to study the tapestry on the wall, a colorful, floor-to-ceiling depiction of the fates smiting the lands for Ailill and Isla’s folly. Impressive artistry, if not a tad morbid, the plentiful corpses piled at the bottom. In all our years of friendship, I have never been in the lord’s private chambers. When we were young, these were his father’s rooms, off-limits to children.
I haven’t been to see Theon here since he became lord. “I suppose it bodes well that he didn’t lead us straight to the great hall.” A formal and impersonal gathering spot, reserved for announcements and punishments where witnesses are needed.
“Too many ears collecting valuable information in that drafty old room,” comes Theon’s voice from another doorway. “As it is, I’m sure there is a bird taking flight to Cirilea with a message about this audience, as I speak.”
As long as you’re not the one who sent it.
Despite my worries, I smile at one of my oldest friends as he strolls into the long room, dressed in a simple but elegant suit. I haven’t seen him since the day I was to marry Romeria. He hasn’t changed, right down to that odd stripe of gray through his black hair that appeared at six years of age when the blood curse took hold.
But so much else has changed since that day. “Thank you for allowing us a chance to speak.”
“I did not think I had much choice.” We meet halfway and clasp hands. A rather unorthodox move between royalty and subject, but welcome nonetheless. “I will admit that this visit is a surprise yet not entirely unexpected.” He hesitates. “Your Highness.”