7. Basten
Chapter 7
Basten
T he rain is relentless as I ride Dare, my roan gelding, to Sorsha Hall’s courtyard.
It’s a gods-damn circus.
A line of six carriages and fourteen wagons fills the space as footmen in rain-slick oil cloaks bind tarpaulins over the furniture, trunks, and other household goods the Valveres will need in Old Coros.
The journey to Old Coros takes six days in good weather, and already, my stomach grumbles to have to spend it in the midst of such fanfare.
Servants—drenched to the bone—hold wooden panels over the Valvere family members’ heads to protect them from the downpour as they take their places in the carriages. Lady Eleonora takes the first one with Serenith, Sorsha Hall’s Castlekeep, as her travel companion. Lord Gideon and Lady Runa take the second. The rest are filled with distant cousins and high lords who somehow managed to glom onto Rian’s favor enough to earn a place in his reign .
Lady Suri takes the final place in the last carriage, snagging my eye with a disapproving look.
She hoped not to see me here—that I’d be scouring the woods for Sabine.
I seem to disappoint everyone these days.
I swallow a lump in my throat as I absently rub the wrist guard strapped to my left forearm. The leather panel does a good job of hiding the bandages. Not that anyone would bat an eye at a bandage, anyway—I spent years as a soldier and a huntsman.
Still, I prefer it to be secret. A wrapped present only for my eyes. A name . A name that, now that it’s carved into my skin, is also locked into my memory.
A clatter of metal like a tin drum makes everyone turn. The last wagon, the largest and strongest, which is usually reserved for transporting army cannons, holds an enclosed iron cage that’s ten feet long and nearly as high. There isn’t a single window or bar, only a door secured with a staggering number of locks.
Another metal crash rattles my teeth as the whole box shakes.
Captain Fernsby shouts the command, “Add an extra set of chains!”
Dare dances beneath me, nervous; his nostrils scent the air. Almost nothing spooks him, which is why he’s my choice of mount from the Valvere stable. A huntsman needs a ride with confident footing.
But the thing inside that iron cage has Dare writhing like a snake scenting a fox. And it doesn’t take a genius to guess what it is.
“What are you fucking thinking, Rian?” I murmur under my breath .
To my surprise, an answer comes.
“When going to war,” Rian’s deep voice says from behind me, “It’s wise to take one’s most powerful weapon, wouldn’t you agree?”
Rain forms rivulets down his black wool riding cloak as he sits astride his horse, Colossus.
I shift in my saddle, hiding my surprise that he’s out in the rain instead of with the other Valveres in gilded carriages.
Recovering fast, I point out, “Unless that weapon is a fucking monster.”
The monoceros in the box, Tòrr, is twice the size of even the largest Valvere stallion and meaner than one of Rian’s caged tigers. Its three-foot-long horn made of pure solarium can harness sunlight to incinerate an entire city to the ground.
Rian knows this. He’s seen the monoceros trample half a dozen sentinels to death. Hell, he’s seen it stab his own father through the chest.
Truth be told, though, I understand why Rian would bring the monoceros to Old Coros despite the risk. Leaving the equivalent of a powder keg bomb in Sorsha Hall’s basement, without any supervision, would spell Duren’s destruction the first time someone forgets to feed Tòrr his favorite honey grain.
Besides, possessing a monoceros won Rian the Astagnonian throne over Grand Cleric Beneveto’s campaign. There wasn’t a chance in hell Rian was going to leave his prized weapon behind.
Rian’s mouth curves in a wry half-smile. “Good thing you’re coming along to protect me from my own idiotic tendencies. ”
“Well, someone has to.”
“Truth be told,” Rian says in a low, dangerous voice that pulls my attention from the shaking box, “I’m less worried about being stabbed in the back by the monoceros than by you.”
I sit straighter in the saddle, cold rain dripping from the tips of my loose hair. I ask carefully, “What do you mean?”
Keeping his eyes on the line of carriages, he takes out his Golath dime and runs it over his knuckles. “My family held a meeting at dawn. The verdict was that I should poison your coffee at the first waylay stop on our journey and leave your body to rot in the woods. They think you’re a threat to all of us, given your birthright. The terms of our deal have changed, after all. I gave you Sabine in exchange for the crown, and now Sabine is gone. What’s to say you won’t renege on our deal?”
He catches his coin tightly in his palm, glancing at me. He speaks about plotting my murder as casually as discussing the route we’ll take to Old Coros.
I shift again in my saddle, trying to keep my face as much a mask as his own. “Is it wise to share a murder plot with the victim, my lord?”
A smirk flits across his face as he finally looks me plainly in the eye. “Tamarac?”
I pause. “Tamarac.” Complete honesty.
I’m not going to kill you, Wolf. You’ll be pleased to know I told my family that I’d sooner poison their coffee than yours. Yes, there’s no denying it: You fucked my bride in front of me, you bold, golden-cocked bastard. But do you think I’d let a woman come between us? After everything we’ve been through? After you gave me the crown that should be yours? ”
His tone is jovial like we’re boys again, wrestling in Sorsha Hall’s rose garden. But I know that Sabine is no mere distraction like the pretty chamber maids we used to flirt with at Midtane parties. She meant something to him, too—I can see it in his eyes, in the slight tremor as he smooths a hand over his damp brow.
Rian spurs Colossus closer to Dare as he tosses and catches his Golath dime. In a cheerful voice that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he says, “In fact, instead of death by coffee, I’ve decided to make you First Sword upon my coronation.”
He flicks his coin in my direction, and I reach out to catch it on instinct.
Opening my palm to look at his prized coin, I croak, “First Sword?”
It’s the title given to the king’s personal advisor, his right-hand man. The shock of it leaves me reeling, more wary than ever, but I force a cheeky smile. “Bit of an upgrade, my lord. From, well, my death.”
He winks. “A bit.”
I stare at the coin again before closing one finger over it at a time.
Captain Fernbsy calls to him that the convoy is ready to depart, and with one curt nod, Rian spurs Colossus to the front of the line.
I finally let out the deep breath I’ve been holding, letting it bow my posture against the pounding rain as I slip his coin in my pocket.
First Sword? By the fucking gods. The title would be a great honor to any soldier, but I’d sooner drink the poisoned coffee. Leadership isn’t in my blood. The solitude of the woods calls me, not army barracks .
“Congratulations, Lord Basten.” A Golden Sentinel nods to me as I pass, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the honorific.
“Lord Basten,” another soldier says with a bow.
Bristling against the praise that everyone showers on me with more force than the punishing rain, I kick Dare into a canter and ride apart from the travel convoy, a few horse distances from the nearest carriage.
Finally—a moment to think.
Folke, naturally, takes this prime opportunity to sidle his horse up beside me. His gray-touched hair is pulled back messily. His shirt could use an iron. He looks as rough as the day I met him, half-drunk in the army barracks back when we were both trainees.
“They let you into the convoy?” I say.
He grins. “I’m Rian’s best spy.”
I glance over my shoulder to spot Ferra in the traveling party. Perched primly on a Palamino mare with a silk umbrella open over her curls, she couldn’t be more of a contrast to Folke. As the Valvere’s godkissed beauty sculptor, she maintains the epitome of city fashion.
It baffles me daily that the two of them ended up together.
“You’re Rian’s best spy only because I beat the answers out of your victims.” I hold my left hand up in a fist that I feign swinging at him.
He smirks and dodges, then frowns. “What happened to your forearm?”
“Nothing.” I shut down as I snatch back up the reins and study the road ahead. But the silence roars at my ears, so I quip, “Anyway, it’s Lord Basten now to you.”
“Ha! Yes, First Sword. Congratulations on the promotion. Some might say Rian bought your loyalty with that shiny new title.”
“He doesn’t need to buy me,” I snap, annoyed. Only Folke could get away with such a jab. “I don’t play those political games.”
“Well, where we’re headed, you’ll have to learn to play. Hekkelveld Castle isn’t like Duren. You can’t go around throwing punches in the hallways. There, it’s all about the game. You’ll need to bluff. Know when to fold. Most importantly, know who holds the winning cards.”
I slide him a close look. “You sound like you’re already in the game.”
He shrugs. “A wise player knows what he’s walking into, including the other players. There are a lot of men with power in Old Coros. Women, too. I might have been sending a few messenger crows back and forth over the last few weeks, it’s true. While there appears to be one top player for now—” he looks pointedly at Rian “—it doesn’t mean he will always be on top. There could be other players, say, a wildcard who was born with the winning hand but traded it for fuck-all.”
My jaw clenches. He’s venturing close to treason here. Quietly, I mutter, “I told you that I’m loyal to Rian.”
“Who said anything about Rian? We’re talking hypotheticals, my friend.” He steers his horse closer and leans in. “The Astagnonian throne is no game of chance. And the stakes are the fucking lives of an entire kingdom. Do you really think the Lord of Liars is the best man for the job when there are…” He pauses as his stare drills into me. “… wildcards ?”
I spur Dare forward into a canter, eager to be away from Folke and his insinuations .
Does it surprise me he’s scheming? Hell no. But I’d rather his schemes not involve me . Because if he thinks I’d make a good king, he hasn’t spent the last ten years at the bottom of a tankard with me.
As Duren’s city gates appear ahead, an enormous black streak covering the side of the grain warehouse steals my attention. I pull Dare aside and draw him to a stop beneath a blacksmith shop’s awning, then dismount.
The warehouse’s south wall is covered in what looks like a mural of a woman with golden hair in seemingly endless waves, but now it’s covered with black paint. Someone has smeared her painted face with charcoal. Over her mouth is written “TRAITOR.”
All that’s visible of the original mural are a few butterflies painted at the top corner, a curl of hair at the bottom, and the elegant curve of the woman’s neck leading into a pointed chin.
A sharp pain punches me in the gut, making me clamp a hand to my stomach as I double over from the overwhelming force.
I remember this mural—at least, I remember the fact that there was a mural here. But for the life of me, I can’t remember the face beneath that black paint.
It was her , I think. It was a portrait of Sabine.
The earth seems to shift under my feet. The air grows unseasonably cool for late summer, and goosebumps erupt along my skin. I clamp my hand over the bandages that hide the name carved into my skin.
Breathing hard, I can’t tear my eyes off the few remaining portions of the mural, lapping them up like crumbs. Even from that glimpse of her chin and a lock of her hair, I can tell that she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. No wonder Rian was so taken with her. Even with her face blacked out, it’s easy to imagine why the public wrote sonnets about her. They’ve tried to cover her up, but she’s still radiant beneath the black paint.
She lives in more than memories.
A man shouts a second before his carriage side-swipes me, and I jerk back in time before a pure white mare runs me over.
The mare stops short an inch in front of me. Though her driver curses and whips her, she remains standing.
I can only stare.
It’s Myst.
The mare feels as much like an old friend as Folke: the kind who are as much trouble as they are someone to rely on.
It’s strange. I remember Myst perfectly, including our ride from Bremcote, her snorts and head-tosses, yet my memories of that time are blurry around the edges.
Blurry because Sabine should be in them.
“Myst.” I give a huff that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “You old troublemaker.”
I reach to stroke her forelock, but she tosses her head up and gives a hard stomp to my foot.
“Ow!” I double over, clutching my toes. “What the hell was that for?”
Myst pins me with her black eyes. I don’t have the gift to talk to animals, but this horse and me? We’ve always understood one another. And right now, she’s telling me that I’m a complete and utter fool .
“Yeah, well, Lady Suri beat you to that conclusion,” I murmur .
The carriage driver lifts the whip. “My apologies, Lord Basten. Don’t know what’s gotten into this one.”
I step aside, motioning for Myst to go. She side-eyes me one more time before trotting on.
Breathing hard, I realize I’m standing in the street like a stray dog.
As I mount Dare and rejoin the travel party passing through the city gates, I press my wrist guard hard enough to reopen the wounds. Blood weeps down my knuckles, mixing with rain, dripping into the mud.