Chapter Six
Jarok
Despite knowing full well the carriage temperature was enchanted to be comfortable for all travelers, Jarok leaped from the thing like it burned him, his skin hot and itchy after being confined in the space. He stretched, bending his back and neck for long seconds to hide the other sources of his discomfort—the Fae lady who descended from the carriage behind him, all tall fighter’s grace and luscious form.
They’d finally reached the first inn on their journey, which meant a hot, full dinner, maybe a glass of ale, and a warm-ish and somewhat cushioned bed for him. Jarok smiled at the idea, despite the security nightmare such a space presented. He was no stranger to rough rides, cold nights, or hard bedrolls, but he much preferred the creature comforts of Fae over their previous arrangements. A Fae’d be a fool not to in this cold corner of the world.
“I’m glad for a warm, rowdy room,” he heard Gem call as she stepped up from behind him.
“Reminding you of home?” Jarok asked with a smile. The Aurora Outpost, Gem’s usual residence, was lively most nights. The warriors there appreciated warmth and merriment in all its forms.
“Not quite, but it’ll do,” she said, knocking his shoulder with hers as she passed him to enter the inn first.
He turned to see Piris chatting with the coachman about something and noticed her own secret stretches, her height rising and falling in slow, controlled bursts as she stretched up on her toes, then lowered herself back down on her heels. He smiled to himself before his eyes scanned the rest of the scene. A scowl marred his face at seeing Darin patting his horse down.
Jarok managed to hold back his stomp as he moved in that direction. “I’ll take him,” he said, reaching a hand out to grab his horse’s reins from the assassin.
Darin didn’t acknowledge the prince’s arrival until he tightened his grip on the reins and held them in place. Jarok wasn’t about to have a tugging match with the man over the horse, so he stared, the arrogant princely mask slipping into place. Darin’s hard gaze evaluated him a beat before stepping back. “Apologies, Prince Jarok. Where I am from, royals do not tend their own animals, and anyone who rides has the responsibility for caring for their steed.”
Cylian had walked up during their odd non-confrontation, nonchalant but to Jarok seeming to insert himself purposefully. He’d positioned himself so he could step in if need be, and Jarok pulled back once again, reminding himself they needed Darin. For his resources and his skills. His words, also, caused a little pang in the prince, who’d used his royalty against the man before he’d known full well that being a royal meant something different when it came to behavior in the Springlands.
“No need to apologize, Marco. I simply prefer to care for my own horse. He’s been with me many years and is my responsibility. Well, as much my responsibility as I can claim. Here, grooms must do more than I can with their magics.”
Darin stepped back several feet in the blink of an eye, so fast Jarok would guess his own magic was speed if he didn’t know better. Darin was a Shadow Fae, which was one reason he was such a good spy and assassin. It was a weighty magic to have, one not as dangerous as a mimic’s but fairly close. The affinity was often used by those in power for their own ends whenever a Fae with the ability to manipulate shadows was found. Unlike mimics, they weren’t exactly demonized by the general population. They were feared more openly, which gave Shadow Fae a certain level of safety mimics didn’t enjoy.
The prince didn’t say more, leaving his thoughts as they were, and instead went to pet and soothe his horse before calling Nore over after he’d tended the carriage pair.
“Are we to have yet another row over where you will sleep tonight, Nore?” Jarok asked, half-frustrated with the man and half-amused by his continued insistence over what his mother would deem appropriate behavior around nobility.
“Aye, if you continue to demand I stay with you. The stable here houses many coachmen and grooms, with plenty of space for each. I’d feel more comfortable there, Your Highness.”
Jarok shook his head at the man but waved him on, not arguing again. He’d given up on it, but he’d continue to ask, hoping one day Nore’d take him up on his offers.
“You talk to the man with great familiarity,” Darin said from behind him.
Jarok glanced back, seeing the stiff lean of the assassin, and shrugged. “I’ve known him for most of his life. He cares for all the family horses.”
The groom took his and Cylian’s horses and led them into the stables and out of sight. To Cylian at his side, Jarok muttered, “I’ll go talk with the stable master, make sure Nore has a warm meal and a bed. Corral Piris and Gem, then grab us a table inside, would you?” His friend dipped his head, both heading in opposite directions. Jarok felt the itch of Darin’s gaze between his shoulder blades for several beats before he assumed he went off with Cylian to secure food at the inn.
The inn was a rowdy place, as Gem had observed earlier. Packed too. He moved between patrons, sometimes having to squeeze through the crowd, to get to his party. The Boraus didn’t hide from their people, which meant every few feet, a cry of “Your Highness” or “Prince Jarok” went up to cheers and he would stop for a few words and handshakes and grins.
When he finally made his way to the table in the back of the open dining room, he found Piris and Gem bent together laughing over ale as Cylian casually observed all around them. Darin sat back, nearly lost in the corner, his hood up to cover most of his face. He moved to Cylian’s side along the wall, across from the women, and sat on the end, plopping down a touch too hard and wincing at the harsh sound it made, which brought more eyes to him.
“Oh, you grace us with your presence, Your Highness?” Gem asked, teasing, and in his peripheral vision, Jarok noticed Darin actually tense for the first time ever. He ignored the assassin and reached over to his cousin to ruffle her tightly bound hair, loosening it in a way he knew would annoy her, just as she knew her words would annoy him.
“Jealous of my fame and renown, cousin?”
“Would be, if I didn’t know I could drag you out to the yard and beat you in hand to hand any time I wanted.”
Jarok snorted before answering. “Big words from a woman who hasn’t sparred with me in ages.”
Cylian, not missing a beat, said, “My money’s on Aurora.”
Piris let out a laugh, forceful and loud and slightly husky in tone. Jarok sat staring, mesmerized for a second as she raised her glass to Cylian in recognition of his joke.
“Enough with maligning my fighting prowess,” Jarok said. “What do we have to eat?”
Before anyone in his party could answer, the innkeeper and several servants came over carrying huge platters of roasted chickens and vegetables, all piled high and trailing an intoxicating steam as if fresh from the oven. He thanked Jarok for stopping at his inn, fussed over him to Gem’s endless amusement, and left them to eat. Everyone was hungry, so they dug in and made occasional rumblings about how good everything tasted.
After decimating a whole chicken and what felt like pounds of carrots and potatoes, Jarok sat back and patted his stomach, content and sleepy after so much food. “Excellent choice on my part,” he said, referencing the inn.
“Good food, good drinks, and lively people,” Gem said in agreement, finished her meal, and scanned the crowd behind her. A small band had started playing in the opposite corner and a makeshift dance floor had formed. Gem’s body swayed to the beat of the single drum, wanting to move.
“Come. Let’s dance,” she finally said, leaning into Piris.
“I don’t know—” Jarok began to protest, but he couldn’t finish before Piris gave Gem the widest, brightest grin he’d seen from her. He wasn’t about to wipe such a look from her face. In the name of keeping the peace, he told himself.
Without a word, both women tore off to the dance floor, forming a private little clutch and moving to the beat. It wasn’t the dancing of formal balls and such, the type of dancing Jarok suspected Piris was more used to doing, having learned from a young age as a Lady of the Winterlands. This dancing was freeform, relying on beat and intuition rather than prescribed sets. He watched, fascinated, as the lady’s posture eased. Her stiffness turned into something fluid and joyful, until during a particular refrain she threw her hands up above her head with abandon, her eyes closed at the feel of the beat driving her body.
“Lovely,” Darin mumbled from his corner, and before Jarok knew why, he let out a growl.
Cylian chuckled beside him. “Why not go dance with them, Jarok?”
“No,” he said, shaking his focus from Piris. “We need to secure rooms if you haven’t already.”
“I thought you had?” Cylian said, an eyebrow raised.
“The innkeeper had disappeared when I entered, likely prepping the mountain of food he brought us not long after, so I didn’t have a chance.”
“Shall I?”
“Let’s both,” he said, moving to rise. Before he did, and against a large part of his judgment, he called to Darin, “Watch them, would you. Please?”
The assassin’s head tilted up so Jarok could see his face for the first time inside the inn. His green eyes, hard as jade, blinked at him before he nodded and turned his full focus on Piris and his cousin still dancing together. For his part, Jarok made himself move forward, not turn his head, and not move himself toward the duo as they enjoyed themselves on the dance floor.
Continuing to internally curse himself and his misstep, he stalked from the quaking innkeeper. He hated the man was afraid. It wasn’t his fault. Jarok should have secured their rooms prior, or thought about what the gathering clouds on their afternoon travels might mean for the occupancy of the inn. Snow was coming—not an unusual thing in the Winterlands, but it meant any traveler along this road who paid attention to the signs had stopped for a room when given the opportunity.
The innkeeper had offered his family space behind the kitchen, but Jarok wasn’t about to displace him, his wife, and his children because he’d been foolish. No. They’d simply have to deal with the consequences of his actions.
His mood didn’t improve when he noticed the two Fae men now grouped with Gem and Piris on the dance floor. The women seemed fine with it, not uncomfortable or unhappy with the two men leering at them as they danced. When one loomed too close to Piris, going so far as to land a hand on her hip and pull her in close to whisper in her ear, Jarok changed direction and stalked across the makeshift dance floor.
“Come, we have things to discuss,” he bit out. He stood there, staring down at the offending hand on her hip, seething in rage he couldn’t name as his breath came out in harsh pants.
His cousin laughed hard to his right. “We’re enjoying—”
“Now, Gem!” he yelled, finally looking up into the frozen and confused face of Lady Piris.
Gem, smartly, didn’t push him as she might on a different occasion. He noticed her lean over and say something to the Fae man she was with before giving him an up-and-down look as she passed him.
Jarok flicked his head to the side at Piris, not saying anything and not moving until she swallowed hard and moved past him, brushing against his front because he refused to make room. The Fae who’d dare touch her watched her walk away, eyes again on her hips, and Jarok stepped up with his fists and jaws clenched, not even thinking about what he’d do, reacting in some primal way. He felt an unfamiliar hand on his shoulder and saw a gray leather fingerless glove—Darin’s glove—gripping him tight. Stopping his steps. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the assassin give him a grim, closed-mouth shake of his head.
He turned back toward the Fae man stepping away, hands up in supplication, saying, “Apologies, Your Highness,” fear plain on his face. It was the fear that brought him back to himself. The man didn’t deserve his surprising rage for dancing with a pretty woman. He had no way of knowing what he did would cause Prince Jarok’s temper to burn white hot. Hell, Jarok hadn’t even known until he saw the man’s hand.
Hanging his head low, Jarok felt shame at what he’d nearly done. The hand at his shoulder, from a man he might have before called a foe, squeezed him for a beat. In a low but clear voice, Darin said, “Come, Prince. As you said, we have things to discuss.”
“Thank you,” he muttered to the man behind him, glad he had time to mask the churning confusion of anger and shame in his chest before he reached their table.
Cylian stood whispering with Gem, who had a too-familiar mischievous grin on her face caused by whatever the Fae lord was saying to her in the moment. Jarok knew whatever she was turning over in her mind wouldn’t be good for him.
Piris sat against the wall, her face flushed from dancing and her eyes bouncing around the room, landing everywhere but on Jarok.
When he made his way to the table, he leaned down to whisper harshly at Piris, “Did you know the man you danced with?” Honestly, he didn’t know which answer would be worse: no, she danced close to a stranger or yes, she danced with someone she knew before him.
She shook her head no and he watched, hesitant for a moment before she gathered herself. Piris pulled on her own mask, tucked it tight as she sent him a hard smirk and stare, the perfect dismissive combination he’d come to expect from her when they fought. “Why does it matter?” she asked, ending with a scoff his way before turning from him.
Jarok’s hand whipped out before he could stop it, grabbing her face, gentle yet firm, tilting her chin slowly back in his direction. “Not a smart move, lady.”
“So you say, Prince. It was only a dance.”
“With a man you do not know,” he bit out, grit and anger hardening his words like stone. “He could have done anything.”
“Like what, step on my toes?” she shot back, meeting his look, her bronze eyes blazing. Still, she made no attempt to move her chin from his grip.
A polite cough behind him brought Jarok back to focus, to the conversation they needed to have about arrangements for the evening.
He straightened, looking in turn toward the three in his party who hadn’t been with him when he had reserved their rooms with the innkeeper. “The inn is full. We have only two rooms for the night.”
“Not a problem. Gem and I can take one while you, Cylian, and Darin take the other,” Piris said.
Simple enough, and what Jarok figured, until Gem said, “Sorry, lovely lady. I have other plans for the night,” and quickly turned on her heels to make her way back to the Fae man she’d been dancing with earlier.
Jarok intercepted his cousin in four quick giant strides, grabbing her by the bicep when she was halfway to her target. “You can’t, Gem.”
“Oh, really? And are you going to stop me?”
Exasperated by both women at this point, he said, “Look, cousin. You can sleep with whoever you want. I have no issues. But on another day. Someone must stay with Piris.”
“Why? She’s a warrior, capable of handling herself.”
“First of all, she’s supposed to look like a lady, not a warrior, and you are supposed to act as her chaperone. Though you’ve done a poor job of it today.”
At that, Gem whirled around, ripping her arm from her cousin, and snarled. Unless she was in battle or sparring, Gem rarely looked so serious. “Watch yourself, cousin. I take my duty seriously. I also have come to know the lady in question. She’s more than capable, whether you think so or not.”
Jarok pushed a hand through his floppy black hair, his voice strained but still low in the crowded space, not wanting anyone else to hear. “Gem, please. For me.”
Gem’s face softened and she leaned in close, giving him an affectionate squeeze on his hand before dropping it. “After what I just saw, I am doing this for you, you fool.”
With that cryptic line, he watched her walk away from him. He could follow, demand she come back, do her duty, but he knew it would mean a real fight. He didn’t want to fight his cousin. He also didn’t wish to deal with the fallout of her leaving. Because someone would have to stay in the room with Piris, and of the options left, he knew, without doubt, the only acceptable solution was him.