Chapter Twenty-Four
Dietan
Crossing the bridge is a small victory.
It’ll be more difficult for my enemies to follow us past the more heavily fortified Loegrian border. The more distance I put between Aren and her attackers, the better.
The Loegrian guards at the gate watch as we approach, naturally curious to see what brave or foolish souls have dared undertake the journey. As word of its danger has spread, only a handful of people have made it this far across the bridge. But I feel far from a homecoming hero.
I’m troubled by how easily I was able to call the Whisting—and how I was so close to hurting Aren. The Whisting killed that bandit with ease. My soul is hollow with fear. The sooner I remove the Rings, the better off everyone will be.
South Dunston lies before us. The city is flanked by gentle hills covered in lush trees and moss-covered stones.
Its sprawl winds like a river through the mountains, carving itself to match the flow of the valleys.
Pulleys powered by horses and oxen stretch like spiderwebs across the cityscape, carrying trolleys and carts high above the roofs of buildings.
Shadows from these contraptions move across the streets like giant clouds.
I hope Aren finds the city beautiful. I’m too exhausted to appreciate it right now.
Guards stop us at the gate. “Papers,” the one closest says, holding out his hand in a carelessly imperious gesture.
“Watch your tone,” Marcus snaps, his temper worn thin by the long night. “This is the Loegrian royal caravan.”
Nonetheless, he gestures toward one of our aides, who clumsily shuffles through papers, trying to find something with the royal seal.
“Royal caravan, is it? Where’s the prince’s carriage, then? The banners, the horses?” the guard says, unsmiling. “Papers.”
Marcus looks ready to punch the guy, but I stop him with a shake of my head. I doff my cap, and the guards’ eyes widen. I look remarkably like my father did thirty years ago, and they’ve never updated his likeness on the coinage.
“Your Highness,” he stammers, bowing low. Others nearby overhear and quickly follow suit. I remember my task and extend my hand to Aren. She takes it, confusion written across her face.
“May I present Loegria’s future queen, Aren of Alarice,” I say, raising her hand for the crowd.
Aren stands up straighter, plastering on a gracious smile, and waves shyly at my subjects. If I hadn’t endured the same ordeal, I wouldn’t be able to tell how tired she was.
Their response is muted, half-hearted applause and weary murmurs instead of cheers.
I don’t blame them.
“If you would be so kind as to show us to the nearest inn—”
“Of course, sire. Please forgive us, sire, but His Majesty, your father, was the one who ordered us not to let anyone in without proper traveling papers, sire,” says the now-apologetic guard.
“Understood,” I say, as the rest of the guards leap to action.
They guide us into the city, apologizing profusely for their lack of preparedness and insisting we’ll be given the best rooms in South Dunston.
Aren thanks them on behalf of our whole party.
I’m proud of how far she’s come. She may be a natural princess, after all.
Gasps and murmurs follow us through the streets. I smile and greet my people as best I can, but exhaustion blurs the edges of my vision.
The guards bring us to a large inn, and I stop the overeager cohort before they leave. “If you’d be so kind, we’ll need some horses, supplies, and anything you can spare for our journey south.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” says the captain. “Though supplies are running low, we’ll do our best to accommodate.”
It’s as I feared. The brewing hostility is already consuming resources.
“Whatever you can spare,” I say. “We must make it to the Oracle of Alba as soon as we can.”
The words feel hollow on my lips. Despite the reassurance any mention of the Oracle seems to give my people, I wonder if it’s worth continuing this lie about a wedding when the shadow of war is already upon us.
Once the captain and his men have left, we can’t make it to our rooms fast enough. Aren’s smile gives way to weariness. She barely says anything as she sees herself to her room. Marcus refuses to rest until he’s established a security perimeter. Everyone needs a fresh start.
Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
Despite the ache seeping into my bones, I can’t fall asleep. Instead, I sit at the window, staring out across the city—south, toward Estyrion and the Great Waste. The darkening sky that looms on the horizon is like a great shroud shadowing the land.
…
We’re on the road before anyone has truly gotten a good night’s rest.
We set out with a horse, a simple wooden carriage, and humble supplies. Breakfast was sparse, though the innkeepers assured us that the next village on the road south would have more provisions. South Dunston has been overwhelmed too quickly by refugees from Penrith to feed everyone.
I don’t complain, though my stomach does.
I march for hours behind the cart with my men, letting Aren sleep in the back of the open carriage, curled under a pile of blankets. We can’t overburden our only horse.
The rhythmic impact of my boots on the dirt road sends occasional shooting pains up my spine. I’m still sore from the battle with the Kilandrar as well as the bandits on the bridge. But I can’t stop. The faster we reach the Great Waste, the faster I can put an end to this misery.
Marcus walks beside me, scowling. He’s giving me the silent treatment, his head held high and shoulders back. I hate awkward silences, especially from one of my oldest friends.
“I know it was foolish of us to cross when we did,” I say. “You can be angry with me. That’s fine.”
“I’m not angry,” Marcus replies, his voice icy. “You gave an order, and we saw it through.”
I sigh, pushing my hair from my forehead. “You know I had to. I hoped you, of all people, would understand. We couldn’t afford to linger.”
“I’m well aware that leadership means making difficult decisions, but I also hoped you’d have some common sense when it comes to your own safety.
I promised your father I’d bring you back alive.
Although your mother favors the Princess Royal, she’s no Namreth.
Your sister would much rather have a life of horses and balls than the weight of the crown someday. ”
His sensibility and knack for calling out my flaws rivals Aren’s. “I know, I’m an idiot.”
“Far be it from me to question orders,” Marcus says, “but you know what I think of this whole charade. A mission to the Great Waste is a death wish, no matter what your father says. And you’re marching your new fiancée straight into it.
” His eyes remain fixed on the horizon, but his words carry a twinge of pain.
He’s probably picturing how devastated Sonja would be if harm came to Aren.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’ve seen the torture my father’s surgeons and councilors put me through trying to fix this, without any success. This is the only way.”
“I saw what you did on the bridge,” he says. “Perhaps you need practice, rather than”—he waves a hand at the cart—“all this. We’re men now, not boys in our fathers’ shadows anymore.”
I wish I had half his confidence. Marcus is already a fine general at our age, already a veteran and a leader, not a fuckup like me.
When the Usurper attacks, my father needs to be the one wielding the Rings, not me.
Even though he’s never used them, since he’s never had reason to, until now.
The skirmishes and battles we’ve had in the past against ruffians and local warlords have been easily won by our armies alone.
I keep my eyes on Aren’s sleeping form in the cart ahead of us. Focusing on her helps ease the tightness in my back.
Marcus sighs. “Fine, I may not know anything about magic, but I’ll tell you what you should do as your general. Return to Lundenwic posthaste. The king needs you. There’s no safer place for you and Aren.”
I shake my head, noticing that the men are starting to look our way.
They can’t hear us, but they can tell we’re at odds.
They assume it’s regarding our next stop—so I speak up loud enough for them to hear.
“Court is a fortnight’s journey. No. We will proceed to Alba for the Oracle’s blessing, as planned. ”
The men nod and resume their low chatter among themselves. Marcus, however, stiffens. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
He knows me too well.
The gulf between us widens, and I struggle with how much to reveal. “You’re right. I’m hiding something,” I admit. “I plan to go to Estyrion, to the Great Waste, alone. But I need you to make sure Aren gets to safety. Take her where she wants to go—back to Evandale or to court.”
Marcus rounds on me. “Alone? That was never the plan. Are you so eager to jump feet-first into the Abyss to meet your ancestors?”
I close my eyes. “I need to do this alone. You just have to stop asking questions.”
“Fallen Estyrion is cursed. You can’t face that madman, that King of the Waste, by yourself!”
Fear holds my tongue. I’ve seen Marcus dead before me in my nightmares—dead by my own hand, the power of the Whisting ripping him apart.
“You’re one of my oldest friends. Don’t you trust me?”
Marcus lowers his head and takes a step back. “I swore an oath to protect you, and the king’s orders supersede your own. If you’re going to the Waste, I’m coming with you, Your Highness.”
The title strikes a vulnerable spot in my heart. Marcus never uses it when we’re alone.
Fine. If I can’t convince him, I’ll simply sneak off.
I’ve gotten good at that.
As we round the hill, everyone stops in their tracks. The cart screeches to a halt, and Aren, bleary-eyed, sits up from her blankets.
The village below us is a picture of devastation, every building reduced to smoking ruins. The ground is as black as charcoal, and the unmistakable shapes of bodies litter the grass—corpses charred beyond recognition.
I don’t need anyone to tell me who or why. This is the work of raiders from Penrith. The Usurper’s shadow army is here, inside the borders of Loegria.
War has arrived in my kingdom.