Chapter 36 #2
She’d go somewhere she could disappear and work quietly, heal without drawing notice. A place where a clever woman with tinctures and steady hands could survive, even if she belonged to anyone.
One place stood out.
“She’s heading to Bashkor,” he said aloud.
Tedric’s brow furrowed. “Bashkor?”
That city was too vast, too chaotic for her to be easily found. And if she reached it before he did, she might disappear for good into the alleys and apothecaries, into the pulse of a foreign city that didn’t care where she came from or who she used to be.
Tedric tilted his head. “Do you know Bashkor well, my lord?”
Alexander didn’t answer right away. “No. But I know someone who does.”
He strode toward Duskwane. Every second lost was a thread cut, and he couldn’t let her slip further from his grasp.
Back again at Parandor, Alexander grabbed a satchel from the wardrobe in his chamber, already half-packed from his last journey. He threw in everything he needed: clothes, gloves, a sealed pouch of coin. His motions were purposeful, but underneath it all, the edges of panic clawed through.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor.
He looked up just as Yrenna appeared in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the jamb. The expression on her face was unreadable, but the parchment in her other hand provided no ambiguity.
“Care to tell me what this is?” she asked, lifting the king’s message in front of her.
Alexander stilled. Shame rose in his throat, followed by the bitter scorch of regret.
“It is as you believe,” he said, the words like gravel grinding against stone. “On our wedding night, I was angry. I wrote to the king, requesting an annulment.”
For a moment, her face was a stunned void. Then, her voice cracked the silence. “How could you?”
She barged inside, the letter falling from her hand, landing soundlessly against the floor. She crossed the room in three quick strides, struck his chest with both palms, hard.
“You sent an annulment letter to the king? You waited until she trusted you, until she thought of this place as home, then cast her aside?”
Alexander caught her wrists, more to anchor himself than to stop her. “I never sent it,” he said urgently. “I wrote it, yes, but I never sent it.”
Yrenna yanked free. “Writing it was bad enough, Alexander.”
“Believe me, I know.”
He had no excuse, no defence. Something in his voice seemed to make her pause. Her eyes lowered to the bag he was packing.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
He shoved one last shirt into the bag. “JingYi boarded a barge headed to Niewberg, but she won’t stay there long. I’ll ride tonight, try to intercept her.”
“If she’s not there?”
He paused, hand hovering over the bag. He didn’t want to think about the possibility. “Then I’ll follow her trail. I’ve an inkling she may be trying to board a ship for Bashkor.”
He turned to face her fully. “I need you here to keep the estate steady. Darion will remain behind. And Conrad. Tedric too. If anything happens, they’ll support you. But you’ll have to manage the estate, the mine, the village, the harvests—everything.” He paused. “And Bertrand . . .”
Yrenna’s brow furrowed. “You think he’s involved?”
Alexander swallowed. “Too many things have gone wrong too quickly. Either I’ve gone mad, or someone is moving pieces behind our backs.”
A silent beat passed between them.
“I need someone here I can trust,” he said, cupping her cheek. “Can you be that person for me?”
She nodded, a small smile blooming on her lips. For a moment, he thought he saw a glimmer of tears in those eyes.
“Go. Do what you must. Bring your wife home.”
Alexander nodded and strode out into the courtyard. A groom led Duskwane out. The stallion was freshly watered, nostrils flaring in the torchlight. He checked the girth himself, struggling to keep his hands steady amid the pulse thudding behind his ribs.
As Tedric and Conrad approached, he pulled Darion aside, voice low. “There may be a spy inside the house. Someone might’ve acted according to an outsider’s interest.”
Darion’s expression darkened. “Bertrand?”
“Maybe,” Alexander said, “but be careful. Protect Yrenna. Watch Bertrand, but don’t make any sudden moves unless you must. If indeed he planned all this, the last thing we need is to spook him. Let him believe everything is going according to plan.”
Darion nodded grimly. “Go. I’ll handle things here.”
Tedric bowed. “Bring her back, my lord.”
Conrad looked worried. “And don’t let her leave your side again.”
Alexander nodded, mounted Duskwane, and rode out.
The journey to Niewberg was best made in daylight, but he couldn’t wait for dawn. Cold and silver-edged, the night blurred past as Duskwane thundered down the moonlit path, hooves pounding a rhythm that barely outran his thoughts.
As he rounded the bend near the edge of the village, a lone figure emerged from the shadows by the roadside.
Alexander reined in, startled. “Ulrik?”
The older man stepped forward and held up a small sack. “Didn’t think you’d remember to pack supper. Figured you’d be riding too fast, too angry, and too damned worried to think straight.”
Alexander stared at the offering for a beat, then reached down and took it. The weight of it in his hand was grounding—bread and cheese, likely, maybe apples and cured meats.
“Thank you,” he said, rough-voiced.
Ulrik gave a faint grunt. “You go find your wife, my lord.”
“I intend to.”
“No,” Ulrik said, eyes sharp beneath his thick, dark brows. For a moment, he sounded like a father scolding a wayward son. “Don’t just intend to. Do it.”
Alexander tightened the reins, then nodded. “I will.”
Ulrik took a step back, giving Duskwane room. His voice dropped low.
“Bring our lady home.”
Alexander rode through the night, pushing Duskwane harder than he should, stopping only when the stallion’s flanks heaved and foam laced the bit.
At a narrow creek, he let the horse drink while he chewed absently on an apple Ulrik had packed.
The fruit was the pride of Tremore—sweet and juicy as if autumn had melted on the tongue—but he could only taste ash.
He mounted again before the stars shifted overhead, wind scouring his cheeks raw.
Even riding hard, it was nearly sunset the next day when the spires of Niewberg pierced the skyline.
He didn’t slow. He veered toward the southern roads, bypassing the palace gates and threading down the muddy track toward the lower docks.
If she’d boarded a ship, it would have been from Port Terresard.
His heart galloped faster than Duskwane’s hooves as the briny scent of the sea reached him. The salt stung his eyes.
JingYi. Please.
The harbour appeared. He dismounted. The smell of fish and tar hit him, but he barely registered it. He pushed through the crowded docks, asking again and again. No one had seen her.
At the harbourmaster’s post, he didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Show me today’s ship logs. Quickly.”
The man hesitated until Alexander placed his signet ring heavily on the desk. That spurred him to rifle through the records, scanning ship names and cargo until he found it: Barge Eighty-Two. Same registry. Same trader.
But the destination had changed: Aethonia.
Alexander’s breath left in a sharp exhale. Of course. A barge couldn’t take her all the way to Bashkor. But from Aethonia, she could board a larger ship bound for any corner of the Nine Kingdoms.
He straightened. “Are there any ships bound for Nymaris tonight?”
“Yes, my lord. Sails in three turns of the clock.”
A small mercy. He was late, but perhaps not too late. If he caught the first ship to Aethonia, he might reach Nymaris before she moved on. Hopefully, the city’s brilliance would tempt her to linger.
He looked up and caught sight of Limyere Palace’s spires in the distance. First . . . he must see his king.
The palace stewards showed him inside straightaway.
He’d certainly been expected. The throne room, though less ceremonial at this hour, was no less imposing.
As he entered, he found King Ferdinand standing alone near the window, a goblet in hand.
When he turned, his expression looked carved from stone.
“It arrived in front of everyone, you know,” he said, “Your annulment request.”
Alexander stepped closer. The king didn’t mince words today, which was just as well. He had no time for small talks.
“It was never meant to be delivered.” After a pause, he added, “Someone did it without my knowledge.”
Ferdinand arched a brow and scoffed. “Then you’re either careless with your correspondence, or someone in your household doesn’t fear you enough to respect it.” His voice was mild, controlled, which was worse than anger. “Which is it?”
The accusation burned, but he couldn’t deny the logic. “Both, perhaps.”
Ferdinand turned fully to study him. “Did you know this match wasn’t my idea?”