Chapter 38
Quentin might’ve hated Idrix, but he loved Vatha.
Was it because he’d been able to take his first proper bath in days? Maybe. Or maybe it was the soft feather bed or the divine silk sheets.
The only thing he didn’t like about Vatha was how quickly they had to leave it.
He again checked over the supplies that had been loaded into their small wagon, though he’d counted everything three times already. His reluctance to leave sat heavy on his shoulders, his skin twinging with slight discomfort under his fresh bandages.
He’d changed them himself last night. Despite how deep they’d been, his wounds were healing well. He’d always healed well, in truth. It would only be another week or so before the stitches would need to be clipped out.
He’d need to ask Delaynie to do it; he doubted they would reach their next destination by then. For some reason, the idea of asking her to tend to him again filled him with a wild, uncaged sort of thrill.
Quentin counted the bags of dried fruits and meats, organized the wine and water skins, and smiled.
Gods, he knew he annoyed her. She made it so much fun for him to annoy her. Every time she would huff and turn away or cross her arms and give him that scalding glare, something in his blood would heat.
When he finally got her to start talking…gods, he could listen to her talk for the rest of his days.
She talked about her family. Her Armature father, a life Quentin could intimately relate to.
Her Lady mother, the daughter of a wealthy merchant who’d joined Ryenne’s court never expecting to experience love but letting it find her anyway.
Everything about Delaynie’s existence should be impossible—the queen’s magic kept Armature from fathering children.
Yet something about Ryenne’s Abdication had made it possible.
Something in the magic shifted just enough for a miracle to happen.
Delaynie didn’t see it that way. She spoke of her birth as an abnormality, something to be studied. Quentin knew better than to argue, but he knew the truth.
Everything about Lady Delaynie Albellane was a gods-damned miracle, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
“Are you Quentin?”
Quentin turned, stepping out of the wagon. A Vathan guard, armor gleaming and helm tucked under his arm, waited stiffly in the courtyard. Quentin adjusted his baldric and straightened his tunic. “Sure am.”
“I was sent at the request of my king to provide you details about your travels ahead.” The guard pulled a rolled scroll from his belt. Quentin took it, tugging off the twine holding it closed.
It was a map of Vatha. Quentin scoured the papyrus before lifting his gaze to the guard. There was the capital, Elyren, in the west. A dotted path traced through the map, heading toward a mountain range—the Attlehons. Their route through the jungles.
“Quite a gift for someone you don’t know,” Quentin said.
“Our king wishes to extend his goodwill toward the Onitans. He hopes this is a positive first step.”
Quentin nodded. “It’s appreciated. Give your king my thanks.” He rerolled the scroll, nestling it amongst their belongings in the wagon.
The guard was still lingering when he turned. Quentin cocked an eyebrow. “Is there something else?”
The guard shifted, metal clanking. “I have taken the road you are venturing down—many times, in fact. It is long and quiet; not many call the deep jungles home. And those that do are far from human.”
“I’m not afraid of raiders, but I appreciate the warning.”
“It’s not raiders I speak of,” the guard said gruffly. “Be wary of the beasts that stalk the jungle. They have been wild longer than humans have walked the continent. There is a life to those jungles that perhaps even Ydros does not control.”
Quentin eyed the guard. Why was he telling him this? What lurked in the jungle that made this man so concerned for the well-being of strangers he had no reason to care about?
“Thank you,” he finally said, pulling out the words. “We’ll be careful.”
The guard nodded. “Travel well.” He whirled on his heel, boots loud against the stone of the courtyard as he retreated.
Quentin watched him go, shaking his head. There was nothing to worry about. If he could survive all those years on the streets, if he could survive literal Kreah death fighting pits, then he could survive some jungle beasts.
But it wouldn’t just be him this time. His skin prickled with discomfort—with something that inched dangerously close to fear.
Footsteps and soft feminine voices echoed from the corridors. Ciana, Sebastian, and Delaynie spilled into the courtyard—the former two dressed finely, the latter back in her tunic and travel leathers.
Quentin’s mood lifted. “Sad to be leaving the courtly life behind once again, little wolf?”
Delaynie scowled, picking at her baby-blue tunic, stray strands of auburn hair falling out of her loose bun. “Maybe,” she said. “But I’ve started not minding the leathers so much.” She lifted an eyebrow, as if daring him to speak.
Quentin’s grin only kicked higher. Before he could respond, Ciana grabbed Delaynie’s shoulders, pulling her in for a crushing hug.
“You be careful out there, okay?” the petite girl murmured, words half-swallowed by her mass of curly hair. Delaynie chuckled softly and returned the hug.
Sebastian clapped a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “You have everything you need?”
“I have six skins of wine. That should be enough, right?”
Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Please don’t get drunk. We need you to reach Sacale in one piece.” He pressed a folded letter into Quentin’s hand, something guarded in his gaze.
“Find my parents in Sacale,” he said. “They’ll take you in. Ask anyone in town for the Riqueti residence; it won’t be hard to find.”
Quentin pocketed the letter. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. I wrote to them before we left Kreah. They’re expecting you.” Sebastian nodded to Quentin’s pocket, where he now carried the letter. “That will get you past the gates and assure them you are who you say you are. From there—”
“I know.” Something hardened inside Quentin. From there, they would charter a ship to the Kizar Islands.
Whose pirates had burned and scoured their city over the winter. Where Quentin’s father—whoever the fuck he was—had sailed from before knocking up his mother and abandoning her to the cruelty of the world.
Quentin hated those pirates. He despised the fact that he was going there for a purpose beyond burning them all to the ground. But for his queen, he would do it.
Maybe.
Something warm and small slammed into him. Blonde curls tickled his face as Ciana tightened her grip and he couldn’t help but smile.
“Hey, Cee,” he said with a chuckle, wrapping his arms around her. “We’ll be all right. I promise.”
“I know,” she murmured before pulling back. Her wide amber eyes met his. “Take care of Del, okay? And let her take care of you.”
He glanced over Ciana’s head, meeting Delaynie’s icy stare. Something shimmered there, something he hadn’t seen before on her, even as she turned away and gave Sebastian a hug. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll always take care of her.”
Ciana smiled—warm, but a little slyly, a little knowingly. “Good.” She released him, stepping to Sebastian’s side, folding her hands together as if she were trying to keep herself from grabbing her friends and pulling them back in.
Quentin’s gaze found Delaynie’s. “Ready to go, little wolf?”
Her expression flickered. “Yes.” She turned, hoisting herself into the wagon. Quentin followed, settling beside her on the padded bench and picking up the reins. Their hardy mule tossed his head, ready to go.
“I’ll see you when it’s done, brother,” Sebastian said.
Responsibility weighed down on Quentin’s shoulders. He wasn’t used to it; hadn’t really had a chance to come to terms with it until precisely this moment. Quentin started fights or followed orders. But leading? Guiding? Protecting? That wasn’t him.
Delaynie shifted, her smooth skin brushing his. He swallowed.
It wasn’t him, but maybe it could be.
He gave Sebastian a final nod. “When it’s done.”
Quentin snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward. Through the palace gates, into the city streets, and eventually onto the road winding through the darkest depths of the jungle beyond.
The fire crackled, drowning out the quiet rumblings of the jungle.
Quentin leaned back on his hands, straining to see the stars through the thick canopy.
They’d made good time that day. The bustle of Elyren faded away behind them quickly, swallowed up by the trees.
The wilds reclaimed the world beyond the city walls, the road they followed the only mark of civilization as they’d wheeled away.
He’d pulled them off the road when the sun was about to set, using the last lingering light to make camp and ready the fire. A few oil lamps dotted their small clearing, flickering eerily against the towering trees.
He tried not to think about the guard’s warning about what lurked in these jungles.
Instead, he set his bowl on the mossy earth, clapping his hands.
Delaynie shot him a glare, even as she daintily picked over the last few bits of the stew he’d made.
She’d been quieter than usual, giving him only one-word answers to his usual prying questions.
Her eyes had scanned the jungles, as if she were looking for something but wasn’t sure what.
Quentin pushed to his feet. “How about a drink?”
Delaynie scoffed. “Is that wise?”
“No. Probably not. But they gave us six flagons of wine, and we can’t let that go to waste.”
Her eyes narrowed. “They gave us six flagons…or you stole six flagons?”
Quentin waved her off. “I didn’t steal anything. I stocked the cart, like they said I could.”